


I Like My Body When it's With Your Body

by DragonBandit



Category: The Bright Sessions (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Character Interpretation, Brief Self-Harm, Disordered Eating, Dom/sub, Explicit Consent, M/M, Mental Trust Falls, Non-Sexual Submission, POV Dom, Praise Kink, Trust Kink, Under-negotiated Kink, nonsexual bdsm, see notes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-13 06:00:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15357804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonBandit/pseuds/DragonBandit
Summary: "Damien," Mark says. "You're asking me to dom you."Damien's back straightens. He fixes Mark with a stare, chin up. "Are you going to do it?"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not Betaed. Any mistakes are my own. This was meant to be 3k. It’s currently sitting at about 22k. So, yeah. That worked out for me. 
> 
> Born out of the fact that my immediate reaction upon Mark flipping Damien’s power was “Have fun in subspace Damien.” And if no one else will write the fic, I will. 
> 
> About the disordered eating tag: The way Damien’s body is described (very skinny/unhealthy) is reminiscent of someone with an eating disorder. It’s not explicitly said, or hinted at within the story itself, but if that’s a thing that upsets you, take care. 
> 
> About the brief self-harm tag: There are moments where Damien scratches himself-usually his arms. It’s never for very long, but again, if that’s upsetting to you take care!
> 
> If I haven’t tagged anything that should be, please tell me.

The first thing Mark thinks when Damien shows up at his door is,  _ not again. _ The first thing Mark says is “God you look like shit.”

Damien scowls at him. 

“What are you doing here?” Mark says. He leans against the doorway, crossing his arms in front of him. 

“I wanted…” Damien starts, and then closes his mouth, adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. 

“You wanted?” Mark repeats, mocking. 

“Never mind.” Damien snaps. He scrubs at his face, wiping away moisture from eyes that have bags below them so dark they look like bruises. “This was a mistake. Forget I was here.” 

“Have you been crying?” Mark says. 

“No!”

“You have,” Mark presses, straightening as he unfolds his arms. “What’s wrong with you? Joanie said you got your ability back, shouldn’t you be shouting from the rooftops about how happy you are that you can twist the whole world to your—”

Damien abruptly looks away. 

“Oh.” Mark says. He wants to know what the fuck Damien thinks he’s going to get out of coming here. “This is about your ability, isn’t it.” 

“Take it away.” Damien says. 

“What.”

“My ability,” Damien says, like that’s meant to make everything make sense. “You took it away before, can you do it again.” 

“I don’t know. Probably. Why are you asking? You’re not planning to go and do something stupid about that are you?” 

“I want you to take my ability away.” 

Mark stares at him. 

“Please.” Damien says. 

He sounds so desperate that Mark says, “Get inside,” instead of get the fuck away from me, like he should. 

Mark shuts the door behind Damien, walking past him into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of the scotch that Joanie thinks she’s oh so cleverly hidden behind the 20lb bag of rice. Then he pours himself a little more. He can feel Damien hovering behind him, still near the front door. 

“Well come on then,” Mark says, “make yourself at home.” 

Damien doesn’t take off his shoes. He perches on the bit of the couch that isn’t currently covered in Joanie’s paperwork, glancing down at the pile of papers. There’s nothing important there, Mark thinks. Joan’s gotten better at not treating the entire apartment like her second office since she’s had to share it. 

God, Mark thought Damien looked like shit in the dim light of the hallway. Against Joan’s cream coloured couches and the sunlight streaming in from the balcony doors, it’s even worse. 

In a word, Damien looks exhausted. His shoulders droop down like it would take too much energy to not sit at a slouch, more than a personal choice. None of his clothes look like they’ve been washed recently, and they’re wrinkled with the tell tale signs of having been slept in. His dark hair is matted, wisps of hair rising up from his curls in disorderly chunks. 

Mark sits opposite him, taking a sip of his drink. He savours the warmth of the liquid travelling to his stomach. “You love your ability, why are you asking me to take it away when you just got it back?” 

Damien stares at his knees. Mark waits, leaning back against the plush armchair. 

“You don’t get to do this,” Mark says. “Tell me why you’re here or get out. Chloe’s not around for me to pick the answer out of your head.”   

“ You did something to me on the way back.” Damien says, mostly to the floor. “You ripped me open and took something out of me and put me back together in a way that I wasn't meant to be. And you kept doing it until you were back with your sister and your imaginary girlfriend." 

“I didn’t do anything to you that—”

“I liked it,” Damien cuts him off. 

The angry rebuttal dies on Mark’s lips. “You’re going to have to explain that. Because I thought you hated it. I certainly did.”  He takes another sip of scotch. 

“With my ability I have to be in control all the time. I don’t have the option of letting go, or trusting anyone. Whatever I want happens, so I have to be damn sure I know what I want. I didn’t realise how hard that was until you gave me a week where I didn’t have to think about it.”

"So you, what? You want me to take it away permanently? Did it really only take you a few days to forget that I didn't turn you into a normal person, I flipped your power." 

Damien frowns, "I need my ability. I don't want it gone altogether." 

"Yeah, you really need the power to control the entire world."

"Can you stop judging me for three seconds and actually listen?" Damien lifts his head to fix Mark with a tired, angry stare. 

"What is it, exactly that you want me to do?" 

"I want you to take it away, for an hour. Half an hour, anything." He scrubs at his face. 

"I'll flip it," Mark reminds him. "You'll have to do whatever anyone wants of you. It won't make you normal, it'll be fucking dangerous for you to go outside. What if someone finds out that you'll do whatever they ask and tries to take advantage of that?" 

"That didn't stop you leaving me all alone in my apartment," Damien drawls. 

Mark winces, "I wasn't a fan of that plan." The only thing that has stopped him texting Damien, or dropping in on him is the fact that Joan refuses to tell him Damien's number, or his address. "The point still stands."

"So I won't be around people." 

There's something off about that. Something about the way Damien's talking that doesn't line up. "You  _ want  _ me to flip your power, don't you?" he says, slow. "If this was just about wanting a break from controlling people, you'd take a nap, stay inside for a few days and not talk to anyone. But that's not what you're asking for. You want me to do exactly what I did on the roadtrip." 

Damien's silence, and the way he won't look at Mark directly anymore speaks for itself. 

"God, you do. That's really what you came here for, isn't it. You want me to control everything you do." Mark laughs. "Damien do you have any idea what you're asking for?" 

"I'm asking for a fucking break." 

"You're asking me to  _ dom you." _ Mark says. And then the smile falls off his face. "Damien." 

"What."

"You're asking me to dom you." 

Damien's back straightens. He fixes Mark with a stare, chin up. "Are you going to do it?"  

Mark puts the half full glass of scotch down on the coffee table. "You can't be serious." 

"Do I look like I'm joking." 

No. Damien doesn't look like he's joking at all. He looks like he's desperate, exhausted like he's been awake too long, and been given too much to do without enough time to process any of it. 

"I'm not fucking you," Mark says. 

"Who said anything about fucking." 

"It tends to be part of—" He stops in the face of Damien's unamused scowl. Mark runs a hand through his hair. "Right. So, you're here to ask me to dom you. You know what that word means, so that's a good sign. You  _ do  _ know what that word means, don't you?"

"I'm not an idiot." 

"It's not a question of you being an idiot. It's a question of if you've done anything like this before or at the very least, have a clue what I'm talking about." 

"I know what you're talking about."

"Great. You know what Google is. Have you actually gotten anyone to dom you before."

"Of course not." Damien leans back, arms crossing over his chest. "People do what I want. You're the only person who's capable of even attempting it." 

"And this is really something you want me to do," Mark presses. 

"Yes! Stop asking." 

"I'm not the one handing over my brain." He's glad now that he didn't drink more than a couple of mouthfuls of scotch. This is not a conversation to have while drunk. "Tell me what you want. Exactly." 

It's like he's dragging the words out of Damien, the way he goes slack for a few seconds, eyes going wide. "I want to not have to think. I want you to tell me what to do, make all the decisions for as long as you want. I want what happened on the way home, when you had my ability and we were in the car and I could want things and it didn't mean anything."

"But you don't want whatever this is to include sex." 

Damien's head shakes. "You don't want it."

"That's not what I asked."

"I'll do whatever you want. That's the whole point." 

It's Mark's turn to avert his gaze. It slides to Joanie's paperwork. He's grateful, that she's at work right now, and doesn't plan on coming home for at least three hours, more likely four. Joanie's always been bad at overworking herself, especially when there's no one to remind her that people need to eat occasionally. 

He should throw Damien out. He should have slammed the door in Damien's face as soon as he saw him, really. They’re not meant to be around each other, Mark possibly being the main block to Damien’s recovery—though Mark suspects that may have been an excuse to keep him away from someone Sam and Joan had decided was dangerous for him. 

Maybe they're right, because Mark's actually considering this. 

He's dommed people before. He'd found the scene in college, played with a few different people in various roles, nothing too serious. He'd had a girlfriend for a bit who didn't seem to be able to get off unless she was being hurt somehow. That was not a relationship that lasted more than a few months. He wasn't a fan of causing pain, even if the person on the other end of it was begging for it. 

But the rest of it... 

"Okay." Mark says. "I'll do it." 

Damien, when Mark looks up again, looks like he's been hit by a rubber bat. Just as surprised as Mark is then. 

"Please tell me you know what a safeword is." He doesn't wait for Damien to answer, "It's Red. If you ever want me to stop, say that and I will. If I ever say it, you stop, ok?"

"I know what a safeword’s for." Damien complains. 

"Great. So, limits: do you have anything you don't want me to do to you?" 

"You don't remember how my ability works. If you want it I will."

Wonderful, Mark thinks.  _ That _ 's not SSC at all. "And when I want something you don't?"

"I will. That's the point." 

Mark leans back. Not sure what to do with that. He can tell that Damien means it, that with his ability it's not going to matter either way if they put in any limits. God, there's a good chance that he'll break Damien by accident if he's not careful. 

He'll just have to be careful then. 

If he can. 

"I don't know if I can take your ability away again. And if I do, it might take just as long to come back as the first time. Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?" 

"Yes, I'm sure." 

"You're really desperate for this," Mark says, meaning it as a joke. 

Damien looks at him with those tired eyes, and it abruptly isn't one anymore. 

"Tell me if this hurts," Mark says. He closes his eyes, and  _ reaches _ out with his power, trying to remember what it was like in the motel. That half second between yelling at Damien to stop controlling him, and having control himself. Damien's power, when Mark looks for it inside himself, feels like little black threads, leeching and pumping Damien's desires into his head. Mark grabs at those threads, and tugs. 

Damien makes a pained little whimper. 

Mark stops. He swallows, dropping half the threads. Careful. He needs to be careful. He doesn't want to steal Damien's ability entirely, he just wants to take it away for a few minutes. Another tug, gentler this time. The threads come around his fingers this time, but there's a resistance on the other side. Damien's hold on his power. 

"Let go." Mark says, gentle. "This is what you want isn't it? Let go." 

"I can't." Damien says.

"You did it before." He tugs again, but the threads quiver like if he's not careful he'll snap them. Mark has a feeling that's what he did last time. He drops everything. The point of this is that he doesn't want to end up with Damien helpless for weeks at the end of it. 

He'll just have to try it the other way then. The harder way. 

"Are you absolutely sure you want to do this." He says, opening his eyes. 

Damien must read how serious he is, because this time he just says, "Yes."

"And you trust me."

"Yes."

A breath. "Okay. What's the safeword?"

"Red." 

Mark nods. "Strip." 

"What." 

"You want me to dom you. This is how I'm going to dom you. Now stop arguing and do it." 

Damien looks mutinous for a few seconds. But raises a hand to pull at the zip of his coat, shrugging out of it. The shirt underneath is jersey, long sleeved and charcoal grey. Mark watches for another half second, and then turns to go to his bedroom. 

Joanie put most of his stuff into storage when he went missing. Now that he's not kidnapped and/or in a coma the cardboard boxes his life had been put into are all over the floor of what used to be Joanie's office—now Mark's bedroom. Most of it's put away by now, but Mark hasn't had the energy to really go through his old life, what he wants to keep, and what he doesn't. 

Right now that ends up being a good thing. 

Mark unearths the anonymous shoebox from underneath his old history textbooks. Flips open the lid, stares down at the myriad of toys he bought what feels like a lifetime ago. Rope, safety scissors, a cockring, nipple clamps, vibrator, blindfold.  Most of it useless for Damien of course, by virtue of sex very definitely not being on the table. 

Mark puts his head in his hands. He's really doing this isn't he. He's really going to dom Damien hard enough to push him into subspace. It's not even Damien's power—Mark's out of range now and he still wants it just as much as he had sitting opposite Damien in the living room. 

It feels a little more surreal, when he's fingering a play collar and wondering if it would help or hinder. If Damien would even consent to wear it. 

"Of course he would," Mark mutters, "I'll do anything you want me to. Jesus." He puts the collar down. 

He needs to get Damien into subspace. Easiest way to do that is to hurt him, trigger the fun rush of endorphins and pain receptors working in tandem to make a perfect high. Mark feels sick to his stomach just thinking about it. 

Another way then. 

Mark comes out of his room with the box—might as well, even if he doesn't intend to use half of the things inside it—and a pair of soft flannel pyjamas. 

Damien's naked in the living room, standing awkwardly with his head down, shoulders tensed, a bundle of clothes held tightly to his chest as a shield. Mark puts his own parcel on the chair he vacated earlier and holds his hands out. He has to take the clothes out of Damien's hands. 

"Ground rules," Mark murmurs, as he puts Damien's clothes on top of the shoe box and picks up the flannel shirt he brought with him. "I don't do anything permanent to you, or anything that can be seen above your clothes. You will do everything I tell you to. You don't speak unless I ask you to, or you need to tell me I'm hurting you, or something's wrong. You will tell me when something's wrong, I don't care how minor it is, you'll tell me. Do you understand?"

Damien nods. 

"Tell me."

"I understand." Damien says, voice stripped of his usual cocksure bravado. 

"Good. Hold out your arms." 

As soon as Damien does, Mark slips the sleeves of the shirt over Damien's skinny limbs, adjusting the fall of the fabric on Damien's shoulders. Mark does up the buttons, staying eye level with them until he's almost kneeling to do up the last few. He hears Damien's breath hitch when Mark's fingers accidentally brush exposed skin as he skims his fingers down the edges of the shirt to find the next button hole. 

As he does Mark says, "Did Google tell you about subspace?" He doesn't wait for Damien to respond. "Because that's what you actually want from me. You want me to push you down into subspace and make you feel good on not having to think for yourself. To being looked after... to being hurt, sometimes."

Trousers next. He presses lightly on the back of Damien's ankles, helping him step into the legs. 

"I'm not going to hurt you. Honestly, I'm not a big fan of it, giving or receiving. And when I have no idea what you want from me, I'm a little wary to bring out the whips and paddles that I'm sure your internet searches are filled with right now." 

He pulls the pants up over Damien's knees, settling the waistband at his hips. He has to pull the drawstring tight before the trousers stop threatening to fall back to the floor. 

Mark's a little taller than Damien, not by much, but enough that the hems of the pyjamas fall over Damien's feet and hands. Mark bought these in college, so they don’t fit him as well as they used to. On Damien the soft blue-grey of the flannel hangs off him, he's that thin. 

"It would be easier if I was into it," Mark adds, conversational. "But I'm not so we're going to have to do this the hard way. Understand?" 

His eyes are wary, narrowed and he meets Mark's gaze with an almost challenging look. 

Of course it wasn't going to be that easy. 

"Give me your hands again." He murmurs. Damien does, and Mark must be using some of his power. Damien holds out his arms with his wrists together, palm up. 

"Good," Mark says. He flips open the lid of the shoebox, taking out a length of rope and wraps it around Damien's offered wrists. The knot takes a bit to remember, and the rope doesn't want to cooperate. But eventually, Mark has something that will hold Damien's wrists together if he tugs on them, but Mark can easily undo if it all goes horribly wrong. Damien flinches slightly when Mark's thumb brushes the inside of his wrist. 

"What's your safeword?" 

"Red." 

"Do you need to use it?"

A pause, before Damien says, "No." 

This time, when Mark meets his gaze, Damien looks away. 

"Look at me," Mark orders, gentle. 

Hazel meets Mark's eyes briefly, before skittering away again. 

"Damien." 

He looks at Mark. Wide eyed now, uncertain. He's trembling, Mark realises. He's scared. Mark presses his thumbs further into the skin of Damien's wrist. Massages the skin just below the ties. Not enough to hurt, but enough to be felt, instead of the brushes of skin against skin that he'd been doing before. 

He reaches out with his power, and carefully takes up the black threads of Damien's wants. A slight tug, there's still resistance at the other end, but it feels different, less of it maybe. Mark doesn't think that the difference is wishful thinking. 

"There you go," he says, low. "That's better." 

"It's not—"

"I didn't ask you to speak." Mark interrupts. 

Damien's jaw clicks shut. Not because he wants to, judging by the way he looks at Mark with shock. But his shoulders have relaxed, aren't hunched up to his ears anymore. Mark knows that look, remembers it from other partners from college. He tugs again, and some of the strands come free. Finally. 

"Trust me to look after you. I've got you." Mark says. 

He uses Damien's bound wrists to lead him to the couch. Mark sits, pulling Damien into his lap. God he's light. Definitely lighter than Mark, which is worrying, when Mark's been on a liquid diet for the last couple of years. 

Mark runs a hand down Damien's back. Soft flannel warm against the palm of his hand. He can feel his ribs, the jut of his spine. The tension in Damien's body as he holds himself away from Mark. 

Mark pulls him close, murmuring, "Relax. I've got you." 

It takes Mark to push Damien's head gently into his shoulder before Damien gets the message. Even then he's tense. Shying away from Mark's touch when he continues to stroke through Damien's hair. His fingers get caught in tangles, and Mark spends a few minutes carefully working through it. Combing out knots and snarled bits of hair with his fingers. Slowly feeling Damien lean more against him with every gentle tug. Mark scratches lightly at Damien's scalp. 

Damien moans. It cuts out almost as soon as it started and he flinches, locking up until he's as stiff as he'd been when Mark first tugged him into his lap. The efforts of the past five minutes erased completely. 

"It's okay. What's wrong?"

"You don't want me to talk." 

"No," Mark agrees. "But I want to hear you. If you feel good I want to know."

Damien's head ducks down. He nods. But the tension doesn't drain out of him. 

Mark sighs, scratching lightly at Damien's scalp. "Relax." He orders. The few black threads Mark still has hold of quiver. Damien immediately falls back against his shoulder. His breath hitches, a little whimper rising out of his throat. Once again, Mark reaches for the rest of the threads. They come free with no effort at all. They wrap around Mark's fingers, his wrists, sinking into him in a way that Mark instinctively knows means that if he wanted to he could control them. 

Damien's completely at his mercy now. There's no power left inside the other man. Good, Mark thinks. Hopes. 

But god, he needs to be careful with this. With Damien's power. It's like playing with a live wire. One wrong step and Mark's likely to hurt more than help. He doesn't even know what Damien wants from him now that he's dropped into subspace. Well, that he can at least try to fix. 

"What do you want?" Mark asks. 

Damien says, "Anything you do." Distant. 

Well there went that idea. Mark plays with Damien's hair, on the basis that Damien likes it and it's better than sitting there awkwardly with his lap full of dropped sub. 

Damien hums softly, tilting his head into the touch. He's all soft and pliant now. So different to how he normally presents himself; long sleeves and leather jacket like armour alongside ratty jeans and black steel toed boots built to last rather than look good. Add the permanent scowl and shitty attitude and it's no wonder that Damien manages to trick the entire world into thinking he's stronger than he really is. 

Mark smiles, massaging his fingers into Damien's scalp. His hair is thick, dark brown curls that fall down to Damien's shoulders in choppy, haphazard waves that speak of someone who cuts his hair himself, or needs to find a new barber. It's surprisingly clean. There's no trace of grease when Mark rubs his fingers through those curls. Damien must have showered, even if he hadn't bothered with the other steps like brushing his hair, or putting on clean clothes. 

With every brush of Mark's fingers, Damien grows even more boneless. 

"You like this," Mark says. He's always been talkative when he can be, and this is no different. "If this is all it takes to drop you, I don't know why I was so worried about it." 

The only response he gets is a soft moan when Mark massages the bridge where Damien's neck meets his skull. Mark finds two points of tension on either side, travelling down to the base of his neck. 

"You're full of knots. Do you know that? It must be all that looking down your nose at everyone else, you've screwed up all the muscles in your neck." He rubs his thumb against one of them, laughing as Damien's mouth drops open in sheer bliss. "Yes, I see what you want. You want my hands all over you, don't you." 

Another wordless moan. 

"That's okay," Mark's voice drops, "I'll look after you. Just relax for me. Let me look after you."

He massages at the knots, working out the stored tension held in them. Travels down to Damien's back, working at the knots he finds down Damien's spine and ribs. The more he works, the more relaxed Damien gets, until he's pressed against Mark doing his best impression of overcooked spaghetti. 

It's kind of cute, actually. The way Damien's mouth is open just slightly; the way he mindlessly arches into Mark's hands; the way his eyes are closed, utterly trusting. 

"Good," Mark says, without thinking about it. "That's so good Damien." He presses against a particularly troublesome knot. Damien's breath hitches at the pain of it. But he doesn't tense up, just allows Mark to dig his fingers into his skin and rub the knot down to nothing. 

Mark runs his hands up and down the flannel covered back, seeking out more knots, and then just enjoying the feeling of skin-warmed fabric against the palm of his hand. He puts his arms around Damien's too-skinny shoulders, holding him close. 

"There we go," Mark says. 

Damien of course, doesn't say anything. He doesn't even shift closer into the hug, really. Before he can second guess it, Mark kisses the top of Damien's head. 

"We can stay like this for a bit. Joanie's not home for another few hours. Is that okay? Do you just want to sit in my lap and relax?" 

"Yes." Damien says, so far away. 

Mark gives him an indulgent smile, settling the two of them back on the couch. If he's going to be here for an hour or two, he's going to do it in a position that doesn't make his legs fall asleep. Even if he does have someone currently sitting on top of them. 

He zones out for a bit himself, honestly. The soft sound of Damien's breathing lulls him down into its own little headspace, where Mark just feels good. Like he's helping. Like he's in control of everything. See, he got Damien to drop down into subspace. What more does he need right now? 

It won't last. Of course it won't. But it's nice to stay there. Just for a little bit. 

The deadline comes half an hour later. The threads of Damien's ability unfurl from Mark's fingers, withdrawing back into their owner. Damien himself stiffens minutely, until he's sitting up, ramrod straight, on Mark's lap. It's then that Mark sighs, letting Damien go. As soon as the cage of Mark's arms is gone, Damien stumbles out of his lap. 

The scowl is back, as are the shoulders up around Damien's ears. 

"Get me out of this," he says, pushing his trapped wrists towards Mark. 

Mark fiddles with the knot, pulling at one free end of the rope until the whole thing comes apart in one smooth pull. Where the rope has been there are angry red marks and chafed skin. Products of Damien pulling and twisting at the restraints earlier. Mark hisses in sympathy. Still in Mark's loose grasp, Damien rolls his wrists, working sensation back into his fingers no doubt. 

"You should have told me they were this tight." Mark says. 

"I thought you did it on purpose." Damien says. He tugs his arms out of Mark's hands. Long fingers loop around the opposite wrist, rubbing at the wounds.

"I told you, I didn't want to hurt you or leave marks." And now he's done both. Something twists in Mark's gut at that thought. "I'll get something better next time." 

Damien looks at him, "There's going to be a next time?"

Oh. Mark swallows. "That's up to you. Do you want to do this again?" 

Damien is silent. 

"You don't have to answer that right away." A smile. "But my door’s always open if you need to unwind, or whatever." 

Damien nods tightly. "I'll keep that in mind." He gathers up the bundle of his discarded clothes. Hovers for a bit, glancing around the apartment.

It takes Mark a second to work out what he wants. "Right. Bathroom's the first door to the right." He points down the one hallway. Damien disappears into the bathroom. The next time he's out, he's back in his street clothes. Ratty jeans, boots, leather coat and all. Armoured up, Mark can't help but think. 

He already misses the relaxed Damien who let Mark play with his hair for almost an hour. 

Damien shoves the pyjamas at Mark, haphazardly folded. Mark almost makes a joke about how it looks like Damien's never folded anything before. He doesn't. There's a good chance that the answer is "yes," and that's just a little too depressing to contemplate right now. 

An awkward silence follows, once Mark's taken the clothes. Damien staring down at Mark on the couch, Mark staring back up at him. 

"Your sister's going to be back soon." Damien says eventually. "She won't want to see me darkening her apartment." 

"Yeah, she'd be pissed to find you here." Mark agrees. 

"We can't have Dr B getting her panties in a twist because of  little old me.” Damien sneers. “See you around, Mark." Damien sees himself to the door. 

"See you around," Mark says to his back. 

The door clicks behind Damien. 

Mark swallows. He puts the rope and the safety scissors he didn't need back into the shoebox. He gathers up the old pyjamas and takes them and the box back to his bedroom. For a moment he sits on his bed, and brings shaking hands full of soft flannel up to his face and inhales. 

The only thing they smell of is Joanie's laundry detergent. He curls up with them on his bed anyway, hugging them close like a teddy bear. It's just because they're soft, he rationalises. He'll go to sleep and his brain will be back to normal, it's just the aftermath of holding onto Damien's power so tightly. That's it. He'll be fine soon. 

When Joanie gets home however many hours later, Mark still feels like shit. He tells himself that being around another person will make him feel better. 

He joins her in the living room. Joan has already ensconced herself into the paperwork nest she makes of the couch every time she gets home. Mark has no idea how she manages to scrunch herself that smell and not get a cramp somewhere. She doesn't look up from sorting through her scattered files when Mark sits opposite her. 

"Did you go through these?" Joan asks, "I'm sure I put the intake files for my new patient at the top of the pile, but I can't seem to find them now." 

"Haven't touched them," Mark says. 

"Are you sure? I can't see where else I would have put it."

"Well, you do like to pretend you have three offices. Have you tried there?" 

"Yes, actually." Joan shuffles around, picking up files and papers as she hunts through the piled up nest. "I checked my bedroom first when I couldn't find it here. I was working on it last night I'm absolutely sure I—ah there it is." She pulls a slim yellow file out from between the couch cushions. And then she frowns, looking up at Mark. "You're absolutely sure you didn't touch anything? Because the only way it could have gotten there is if someone disrupted the pile." 

"I'm sure. I don't mess with your paperwork, I know better." Mark defends. 

Damien however... He must have knocked the pile with his feet when he was on Mark's lap or something. Or maybe it shifted when he glanced at the few top files when he first entered the apartment. 

Thinking about Damien was a bad idea. The memory of how Damien felt, slotted against Mark's rises to the front of his mind. Along with the texture of Damien's hair, and the sounds he made when Mark massaged the knots down his spine. With it comes the worry he went to sleep with. He doesn't know where Damien is, how he's feeling. If he's hurt. 

Oh god. He thinks he knows what this is. How the fuck did he forget about this? 

Something must show on his face, because Joan gives him a concerned look when she looks up at him. 

"Are you ok?"

"I'm fine." Mark says. Because there is absolutely no way he's going to tell his older sister that he's going through dom-drop. 

Joan frowns. "Are you sure? You're very pale."

"I might be coming down with something," Mark says. "I guess I'm getting my annual cold a few months early."

"Hmm." Joan unfolds her way out of the paperwork nest, and puts the back of her hand on Mark's forehead. "You don't feel like you have a fever, if anything you're cold," She says after a bit. "Have you noticed any other symptoms? Headache? Puffy eyes? Runny nose?" 

"Maybe a bit of a headache." Of course, that headache has nothing at all to do with what Joanie thinks it does. 

"I'll get you some Tylenol," Joan says. "And I think in the meantime you should go back to bed." 

"I'm not that bad," Mark protests. 

"You've just come out of a coma after picking up whoever knows how many pathogens traipsing around the worst motels middle America has to offer," Joan says. "And I know what you're like when you're ill. Bedtime." 

"Really Joan?" 

"Really."

Mark pouts, looking up at her with doe eyes. 

"That look didn't work on me when you were six, it definitely won't now." 

"It might have," Mark says, returning to normal. "If you were nicer to me." 

Joan shakes her head, turning away to the kitchen. Mark hears the sound of her rummaging through the medicine box they keep on top of the microwave, and then the tap turning on and off. 

He downs the pills and water as soon as he's handed them. He's thirsty, he realises, when he reaches the bottom of the small glass and wants more. Of course he's thirsty, he didn't drink anything after the scene. No wonder he feels like shit. 

"Thank's Joanie." 

"You're welcome," Joan says. 

She doesn't give Mark any other option than to go back to bed. Mark tries not to let that get under his skin. He doesn't go to sleep of course, he's already spent two hours napping, if he takes another he'll spend the whole night awake. He's done enough sleeping for a lifetime, anyway. 

Instead, Mark boots up his laptop, dicking around on the internet for a few minutes, not really paying attention to what he's clicking on. The actual content doesn't matter. Not when every other thought Mark has is about how hard it would be to convince Joanie to give him Damien's number. 

He's three pages deep in looking up cuffs and restraints before what he's doing sinks in. The screen displays a set of black leather cuffs, a short silver chain running between them. Mark's fingers still on the keyboard. 

"Idiot," He chides himself. "What are doing, he's not coming back. Whatever that was earlier, there's no fucking way it's going to happen again." 

But even as he tells himself that, Mark thinks of the red, angry lines that the rope had left on Damien's wrists. The wounds that Mark had left there without realising it until it was too late to do anything but stare at them. He should have been more careful, should have used softer rope, shouldn't have tied Damien's wrists together so tightly. What if he'd cut off the circulation in Damien's hands? 

What if he's caused permanent damage? 

Mark shoves his hands into his hair. "You're being an idiot. He's  _ fine.  _ It's done. Sam isn't that kind of time traveller. You can't magically just fix this." 

It doesn't stop Mark thinking about the fact that Damien would look gorgeous with black leather wrapped around his delicate wrists. It doesn't stop him thinking about if there was a next time... 

God. He needs to get out more if he's this hung up on Damien of all people, even if he's sure a good chunk of it is just the drop. 

Mark stares at the page for another loaded three seconds, and hits Buy Now.


	2. Chapter 2

Damien shows up at the apartment door just when Mark had given up the last thought that he'd ever see Damien again.

Joan, thank god, isn't home. She has a new patient, one who needs specialised help, and that's all Mark is allowed to know on the subject. She's been out at the office late again, every day spending more and more time there. Mark is starting to suspect it's more of an excuse to get out from being sucked into the black hole of catching up on popular culture that Mark's ended up falling into.

Netflix is amazing. He can watch all the Star Treks, then skip to stand up, and then back to the cheesiest, shmoopiest romcoms of the late 90's.

Damien looks like crap. He looks worse than crap. His head hangs, eyes cast down to the ground. He hasn't shaved. When Mark gets a good look at his face, he looks like he's close to tears.

"Please." He says.

Something in Mark's head switches on in response to the one word. Mark lets him in. He doesn't need to ask what Damien wants.

"What's the safeword?" He asks, instead of, how are you, what have you been doing, why do you look like you've gone through the emotional equivalent of a shredder.

"Red."

"And you remember the rules from last time?"

"Of course I do."

"Tell me them."

"I do everything you tell me to. I don't talk unless you want me to, or if something's wrong. But you want to hear when I like something."

He takes a moment to examine Damien closely as he talks. There's a ragged edge to his words, obvious when Mark's looking for it. Damien sounds like someone on the very brink of some sort of episode. Stressed to his breaking point, judging by the way his hands tug at the collar of his jacket, shaking minutely.

"That wasn't all of it," Mark prompts.

"And you won't hurt me."

"There you go." He joins Damien in the center of the living room, pausing the TV in the middle of DS9's opening theme.

He pushes Damien's hands away from his collar, undoing the zipper for him and pushing the jacket off Damien's shoulders. One layer of the armour gone. He's close enough that he can see how Damien swallows when the back of Mark's hands brush against the shirt he's wearing underneath. Another long sleeved t-shirt. This one is a dull red, and is clearly new. There are crisp fold-lines across the middle of it.

Damien watches his hands, then Mark's face, and then the room. Darting every which way without an anchor to focus on. Eyes too-bright, too aware.

His mouth is a flat line of hidden terror.

Right.

"Strip for me." Mark says. "I'll be right back."

Damien immediately pulls the shirt off his back. Mark pauses in the middle of turning around, caught on the jut of Damien's hips. The hollow space between his stomach and the band of his jeans. He doesn't realise he's staring until Damien's arm blocks the sight and Mark is being given an uncertain, hurt look.

He swallows, and goes to his room.

This time he doesn't bother to go through the shoe box, just grabs it and rummages through his wardrobe in a futile attempt to find clothes that Damien won't look like he's swimming in. He eventually finds a shirt that Mark is pretty sure is from highschool and a pair of sweatpants that did not start as Mark's and never fit him.

He dithers a bit, wanting to give Damien time to get ready. But there's only so long Mark can pretend that he's gathering up supplies before it gets ridiculous.

When he does get back to the main room, Damien is naked. He's angled himself so his back is mostly to the hallway from Mark's room. His head ducked down, shoulders up around his ears. Arms crossed in front of him, clothes already haphazardly piled on the armchair in front of him.  

Mark can count the vertebrae in his spine. The lines of his rib cage. The sharp protrusions of his shoulder blades.

Something in Mark's stomach turns over at the sight.

He telegraphs his movement when he's close enough, slowly raising a hand to cup the side of Damien's face. His stubble is rough under Mark's palm. Damien's eyes meet Mark's square on. Something in them like desperation.

"Let's take care of you," Mark says, aching for Damien. "Raise your arms for me."

There's a hesitation before Damien does. Mark pulls the T-shirt over Damien's head, kneeling to get the hem to fall properly. The shirt's too big again, the hem hangs around the top of Damien's thighs. The sweatpants are better, when Mark helps him into them. They're actually built for someone with Damien's body type in mind, and the elastic doesn't need adjusting to gently hug his hips.

"Where did you get this?" Damien says, staring down at the words proclaimed on his front. Against black Jersey the words: "I'm Here, I'm Queer, I'm fucking Immortal" are splashed across Damien's chest in bright rainbow text.

"I didn't ask you to speak." Mark says, gentle, standing up again. "Is there a real problem with the shirt?"

"It's ridiculous."

"That's not a real problem."

"It's--"

Mark gives him a look. Damien closes his mouth.

"Good. Are you ready to let go?"

Damien drops his gaze. He crosses his arms again, mouth twisting. "Yes," He says.

Mark reaches out with his power, finding the black threads that are Damien's wants and tugs. The threads twist, going taught, then abruptly falling out of Mark's hands.

Damien's eyes scrunch up.

"Relax." Mark orders, absent minded, gathering up his power. "Let me take it."

Mark reaches for the threads again. He manages to get hold of one—the rest shift, going slippery like a group of eels when Mark tries to take hold of them. The one he managed to catch strains under the pressure of Mark's grasp and it's anchor in Damien's head.

When Mark winds it around his fingers the thread abruptly _snaps._ He feels the backlash as it turns whip sharp, striking at it's owner.

He narrows his eye, and tries again. Again, he only manages to get hold of one. Again, it strains against Marks hold, going thin and trembling with the effort—

"Red," Damien says, a pained gasp. "Red. Mark you're hurting me _red."_

Mark drops the thread. He steps back, pulling his power back as much as he's able to, until he's just mimicking, nothing else.

And Damien bursts into tears. He hides his face in his hands immediately, but that can't disguise the tremors wracking through Damien's body.

"Oh shit," Mark says. "It's okay. It's okay, I'm gone, Damien. I'm not in your head anymore."

The crying, if anything, gets even worse. Through it, Damien snarls, "I want you to be! I don't want to be in control right now. I want to fucking relax and not have to worry about everything I want and how it'll fuck up the next person I talk to!"

"I know." Mark gently pulls Damien's hands away from his face and cradles his jaw. He watches Damien wrestle his emotions back under control. Locking everything back inside himself. If Mark didn't know better—if Damien was in his regular clothes, and not Marks; if his shoulders didn't shake minutely under the pressure of Damien's withheld sobs; if there wasn't drying tear tracks on his cheeks—maybe he would be fooled.

But as it is, Damien's unravelled edges are so obvious that Mark hurts with the knowledge.

"It worked last time. I want it to work. It should work." Damien says.

"I know." He rubs his thumbs against the join of Damien's jaw. The tension in Damien's clenched teeth is insane. "You're too wound up. You need to relax."

"What do you think I'm trying to do?"

"I think you're trying so hard to let go, you're making it worse."

Damien snaps out, "Great. Even when I try I lose."

He wants Mark to stop touching him. He wants to leave. Mark narrows his eyes and pushes against those wants. He doesn't have to obey them. He's stronger than Damien. That's the whole point of this, under the surface. Mark's stronger. He's the one who holds all the cards.

Instead, Mark pushes his hands into Damien's hair. He steps close, invading Damien's space. If it was anyone else this would be where Mark leaned down the few inches needed, and kissed him. But this is Damien, so Mark just pitches his voice down slightly, intent, and says. "Do you trust me?"

"I'm here aren't I? Do you really need me to spell it out?" Damien says.

"That's not an answer. Do you trust me?"

"Yes." Damien retorts.

Mark huffs. "Would it stand you to be a little more nice about it?"

The set of Damien's jaw suggests no. Mark tugs at his hair, just slightly, just enough to watch Damien's breath catch from it. It's a shame when Mark has to disentangle his hands.

"Take off the shirt." Mark orders.

"You just put it on me." Damien protests.

"And now I'm telling you to take it off."

"What will you do if I don't?"

Mark tilts his head, pretending to consider it. He says, with a deceptive lightness, "You don't have a choice." He steps away, opening up the lid of the shoebox that he put on the armchair earlier. As he works out exactly what he's going to do, Mark pushes out with Damien's power.

Damien grasps the hem of the T-shirt, and pulls it over his head.

Mark averts his eyes. He picks through the toys in the shoebox, pulling out what he needs and setting them on the coffee table. He can feel Damien's want for him to explain. His curious eyes on Mark's back. Mark pushes the want away. He picks up the first thing he wants, playing with the soft dark fabric between his hands.

"Kneel." Mark orders. He has to use Damien's power to get him to do it. "Stop fighting me." Mark adds, turning back to Damien. "This is what you wanted. You do what I say. The first time, understand?"

Damien's eyes drop to the floor. "I understand."

"Good. Now look up for me."

Damien does, curious and afraid and pure, unbridled want painted across his face.

Mark leans down, reaching out to brush Damien's hair behind his ears. Damien shudders at the touch. "What's the safeword?"

"Red."

"You'll use it if this is too much."

"You want me to." Damien says, which isn't really an agreement but is probably as good as Mark is going to get.

The blindfold is dark against Damien's washed out skin when Mark settles the black fabric over Damien's eyes.

"Put your hands behind your back." Mark orders. He takes the next thing he wants off the coffee table, circling Damien to get to his crossed wrists. Damien's back goes straight when Mark lifts Damien's left arm. The tension doesn't dissipate when Mark wraps the leather cuff around his wrist. He tests it briefly, tugging and twisting at the chain to make sure it won't cut off Damien's blood supply or bruise him up too badly if he decides to fidget. Mark repeats the motions with Damien's other hand.

He smooths his palms up Damien's arms, up to the stiff shoulders. Mark digs his thumbs into the hollows of Damien's shoulders. Under his fingers, Damien flinches.

"Relax." Mark orders.

Damien doesn't.

Mark stands. For a moment he's caught on the sight in front of him. Something in Mark's gut very much likes the sight of Damien like this. Posture straight, chin up, bound with his wrists behind his back, and blindfolded. It wants to push at Damien, see how much pressure he can take before he snaps.

Wants to kiss the frown until Damien's lips go slack in surrender under his own.  

Mark wants to do more than kiss him honestly. It's Damien's fault for being so pretty like this. On his knees, wearing Mark's clothes, completely at Mark's mercy.

He locks that want in a chest, buries it, and throws away the key. It doesn't matter what Mark wants. The goal is to get Damien to drop, that's it.

So he better get on with that, shouldn't he?

"You're going to stay still for me." Mark picks up one of the little pots of finger paint up from the table, unscrewing the lid.

He touches Damien with his left hand first. Tracing the back of his ribs, drawing two fingers down either side of Damien's spine from the base of his neck until he hits the waistband of the sweatpants. He can feel the nubs of Damien's vertebrae, and again, the coiled tension that Damien's stored in every inch of his body.

Damien shies away from the touch.

"I told you to stay still." Mark reminds him. He pushes a thread of want into the words, watches as Damien shudders with it. The shuddering gets worse when Mark pushes, making the touches firmer. Stops teasing. He runs his palms down Damien's arms, across his shoulders. Massages the base of Damien's neck.

Damien's stomach is ticklish. As are his sides. Under Mark's fingers Damien's skin jumps with suppressed laughter.

Inch by inch, Damien relaxes. His spine softens into an S. The harsh angle of his shoulders washes away under Mark's palms. His head tips down when Mark cards hands through his hair.

"Look at you," Mark murmurs, low against Damien's ear. Damien's breath catches in his throat, released out in a shuddery little breath. Mark kisses his jaw. A fleeting brush of lips against skin. "That's it, relax for me."

He reaches for the threads of Damien's power again. They come easily to him this time, but they pull taught when Mark tries to wind them out of Damien's head. He tries anyway, until they're quivering like over tuned guitar strings. One wrong move and he'll snap them all. He keeps a hold of them anyway.

"Mark," barely a word, more a sigh.

"It's okay. I've got you."

He leaves his left hand in Damien's hair, reaching for the pot of finger paint with his other hand. He coats his fingers in the purple paint, scooping up a generous amount. The stuff is clammy against his skin, cold and slick.

He daubs a thick stripe across Damien's shoulder. Damien arches, trying to get away from the foreign sensation. His head twists, blindly trying to find Mark.

"The fuck was that?"

"You're not allowed to talk." Mark says. He paints another line on the opposite shoulder. The skin underneath the paint is almost super heated.  

"Tell me."

"No."

He waits for Damien to decide if he's going to push it, use his safeword. He dips his fingers back into the paint as Damien's jaw works, clenching and unclenching. His head turns down, to the side. Acceptance.

Mark strokes Damien's hair with his free hand, scratching lightly at his scalp. Damien makes a little sound in the back of his throat.

The sound turns distinctly displeased when Mark's paint covered hand leaves a solid handprint on his shoulder. He curls away from the touch.

"Stay still." Mark says. "Remember? Be good and stay still for me."

Damien's breath hitches. The threads in Mark's grasp quiver.

In the middle of painting purple lines down Damien's bicep, Mark pauses.

"You like that." He says, slow. "Don't you. You like it when I call you good."

Damien doesn't say anything.

"You are you know," Mark says. He picks up another pot of paint, coats his fingers in sky blue. Paint isn't anywhere close to his medium of choice, but you don't do years of art college without learning a few things. "You're good. You could be so good, if you just tried to be. If you let yourself be good."

A stripe that starts at the base of Damien's neck where his hair falls, and carries up his shoulders, across his collarbone and down the center of Damien's sternum. Damien shivers with the cold, but stays still. Even when Mark daubs paint across his chest, catching the edge of one of his nipples, all Damien does is let out a sharp gasp.

"See?" Mark says, "See how good you can be for me?"

"Mark."  

Mark touches Damien's legs with his clean hand, massaging his thumb into Damien's thigh. Sweeps hands around the bones of his hips, the divot of his waist. With every touch, Damien shudders minutely. His breath is faster now, trembling through him.

"You're so good, Damien."

He grabs another colour at random: green. He dots Damien's stomach with it, tracing the boundaries of where he's ticklish and where he's not. He sweeps huge lines across Damien's back, joining the green with more blue and the purple to make feathered wings along his shoulder blades and ribs.

With every touch Damien trembles. The threads match him, quivering in the tight hold Mark has on them. He keeps half an eye on the vibrations of the threads, as he keeps half an eye on Damien's reactions.

He's started to make cut off vocalisations. Mark isn't sure if they're words, or moans. Maybe both. He wants to hear them. So of course, Damien gets louder.

"Please." Damien says. His breath catches, coming out in a whimper. "Please. Please Mark, please. I want—please."

"I know." Mark says. He kisses Damien's back in the space between the roots of the painted wings. In his hands the threads arch; the way that Damien's back wants to. "I know."

He kisses up one of the painted wings, scrapes his teeth against the delicate skin of Damien's neck. Damien's head drops to the side, and he whimpers. "Mark."

"I know," Mark says, "I know, I've got you."

Damien's pulse is jackrabbit fast under Mark's tongue. It matches the fast, shallow breaths. He's close, Mark just has to find the last thing to make him fall all the way down.

"Let go," Mark says, against the hammering pulse in Damien's neck. "Let go. I've got you. I promise, I've got you. Let go. It's okay. You can let go. Be good. Let go."

Another whimper. "I can't."

Some of the threads curl into Mark's hand and stay there. Damien's entire body is tensed. Muscles clenched. His bottom lip clenched between his teeth.

Mark's voice, drops, intent. He's been intent since the beginning, but this time he can feel the threads of Damien's ability adding to his words. "Let go. I'll catch you. It's alright, trust me. I've got you Damien. It's safe to let go."

A final shuddering breath, and Damien does. It's like his strings have been cut. He goes loose, lax, a spring that's finally been allowed to uncoil. The rest of the threads wrap around Mark's fingers, and sink in. Damien collapses back against Mark, in a way that can't be comfortable considering his bound hands. He gulps down air in great shuddering gasps.

"There you are," Mark says, gentle. He brushes a hand through Damien's hair. Kisses the side of his neck. "That's much better, isn't it?"

"Yes," Damien says, absent, once his breathing is under control.  

"You were so good," Mark praises. He pushes Damien back upright, "Stay like that for a few more minutes, then I'll take care of you, okay?"

Damien nods.

Mark makes short work of screwing the lids back on the paint pots, and settling them back in the shoebox. There's a dab of purple paint on the carpet now. He'll have to get that later, before Joanie notices and asks him where it came from.

He circles Damien, admiring the painted wings and the abstract patterns that he's covered Damien's body in. He tilts Damien's head up. "Do you want this off?" He asks, running a finger under the blindfold.

Damien doesn't seem to register that he's been asked a question.

"Damien. Do you want me to take the blindfold off?"

"Do you want it off?"

"I want to know what _you_ want." Mark asserts. "It's a yes or no question."

"Yes." Damien says, eventually.

"Thank you." Mark pulls the blindfold up over Damien's forehead, and throws it over his head to land in the shoebox. "Oh look at you," Mark breathes, when he looks back at Damien's face.

He's beautiful. Lips slightly parted, eyes dark with only a thin ring of the his hazel eyes around the blown pupil. He looks at Mark like he hung the moon.

Mark's fingers itch for a camera.

He can't help but press a thumb to those slack lips, hooking it briefly over to press against Damien's canine. Damien's tongue meets the tip of his thumb, closing his mouth around it and sucks.

Mark swallows, tight. He takes his finger out of Damien's mouth, wiping the saliva away onto his shirt.

"Right," he says, hoping his voice doesn't betray everything. "Do you want the cuffs off too?"

Damien answers with an immediate, "No."

"You're sure? I can move them so they're in front of you."

The hesitation is back, "Do you want me to keep them?"

"I want you to be comfortable," Mark explains. "Your shoulders can cramp if you have your hands like this for too long. But if you really want to keep them behind your back, you can."

"I do."

"Okay." Mark rests his hands on Damien's shoulders, checking the strain on them. "I won't move them, but you have to tell me if they hurt too much. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

Damien's whole body tilts towards Mark when he takes his hands away. As soon as it starts it stops, swaying back.

"Do you want something?" Mark asks, amused.

"I liked—"

"You liked?"

"I like you touching me." Even deep in subspace as he is, Damien sounds embarrassed about admitting it.

"I can touch you." Mark answers. But he's not going to spend any more time on the floor than he needs to when there is a perfectly good armchair to sit in. He stands, stretching slightly before he reclaims his seat from before Damien showed up at his door. The praise comes offhand, "I like touching you. You always make sweet noises when I've found somewhere sensitive."

From this angle, Damien's face is hidden by his hair. Mark corrects that, tucking the offending strands behind Damien's ears. His face is flushed, just a little.

"Do you want to stay down there, or come up and sit with me?"

"Here."

"Come closer then," Mark says. He pats his lap invitingly until Damien gets the message and puts his head on Mark's thigh. As soon as he does, Mark buries his fingers in Damien's hair, ruffling the curls into a mess.

Damien's only reaction is a pleased sigh.

"You are so out of it." Mark smiles. "Why couldn't you have been this sweet on the way home, instead of breaking your phone and being a general dick."

"Sorry," Damien mumbles into Mark's jeans.

"It's okay, I'm not mad."

He really isn't. He usually is. Mark vacillates between being worried about Damien and pissed off that he's worried about Damien or just being pissed off about Damien in general. Mark supposes it's hard to get mad at someone who's currently using you as a pillow. That, and domspace. Of course Mark isn't going to be mad at his sub. Even if that sub is Damien.

He plays with Damien's hair. Finger combing out the various tangles that have accumulated over however many days it's been since Damien took a brush to it. He leans back into the armchair, stretching out his legs in front of him.

"Do you like Star Trek?" Mark asks.

"Hmm?"

"Star Trek. You know, boldly exploring places where no man has explored before. Well, that's usually what it's about but I'm watching Deep Space 9 so it's more about boldly staying on a space station."

"Don't know it." Damien pushes his face into Mark's leg.

"You don't know Star Trek?" Mark shakes his head, playful. "Well that's obviously a travesty I have to fix right now." He picks up the remote. "You'll like it. There's hardly any kissing at all."

Not, of course, that he expects Damien to pay any attention to the show. Or retain any of it afterwards when he's not dropped. Mark doesn't bother to rewind back to the first episode. Instead, he hits play, and lets the trumpet solo of the opening credits for season 3 episode 12: Past Tense pt: 2, echo through the apartment.

Damien hums along to the opening music. Mark is never going to be able to tell anyone this story and have them believe him. Not, of course, that he would ever tell anyone in the first place. It's private for one. For another, he's not meant to be near Damien at all. Let alone play with his hair while Damien sits at his feet after Mark's carefully twisted all of Damien's wants around his hands where they can't interfere with anything.

Mark loses track of what's happening in the episode after five minutes. Star Trek just isn't as interesting as the warm weight of Damien's head on his leg. The tiny movements of Damien's cheek nuzzling against the fabric of Mark's jeans.

He really is beautiful like this. Soft and vulnerable. Trusting. Something about how open Damien is right now makes something perk up in Marks chest. It wants to see Damien like this more often. To take care of him. Someone should take care of Damien, he's obviously not doing it himself. Why can't that be Mark?

He's aware that some of this is domspace talking. Needing to take care of his sub during a scene and after it. But Mark isn't sure that's all it is. You don't spend three months with a person without developing some sort of feelings for them, and try as he might, Mark's feelings for Damien aren't as negative as they should be.

And then there's the rest of domspace. The bits of it that haven't gotten the message that sex isn't on the table. It makes Mark want in a different, infinitely more dangerous way. Reminds Mark of the feeling of narrow hips under his hands, the way Damien shudders where he's sensitive, which is basically everywhere.

Damien stills.

Fuck...

He puts his hand on the back of Damien's neck, strokes at the delicate bones there. Bites at his lip. He doesn't want Damien to focus on that want. He wants Damien to feel good, to feel happy, to feel safe. He wants Damien to relax and let Mark worry about everything for a few hours.

Eventually, Damien shifts, back to rubbing his cheek against Mark's leg.

On the TV screen, Mark ignores the fictional dystopian nightmare of a society that locks up anyone who doesn't contribute enough. The soundtrack of Damien's soft breathing is far more interesting.

Three episodes later, Damien starts to shift. The threads tug against Mark's fingers, wanting to be released. Mark does, feeling the power flow back into Damien's head. Time's up.

Mark allows himself one last ruffle of Damien's hair.

He knows the answer, but asks anyway, "You want to get out of here now, don't you?"

"Yeah. I should stop darkening your day," Damien says. He's drawing away from Mark, rolling his shoulders and standing up. "Get me out these."

"Oh. Of course, turn around."

Mark uncuffs him. Glad that the cuffs haven't left chafed skin in angry red lines across Damien's wrists like the rope had. That by itself makes it worth buying them. Damien doesn't let him hold onto his arms for very long, as soon as he's free he tugs his arms over his head, back arching up in a stretch.

Mark sheets his eyes. He drops the cuffs back into the shoebox.

"What is this stuff?" Damien says.

"What?"

"The....paint. Is it paint?"

"It's fingerpaint," Mark confirms. "It's non-toxic, and made for kids. You don't need to worry about getting poisoned from it or anything."

Damien makes a non-committal hum, twisting around every which way to examine Mark's handiwork.

"I can take a picture of your back, if you want," Mark offers. "I'd delete it afterwards."

"Pass." Damien dismisses.

"Okay." He's disappointed, but it's Damien's choice if he wants to get photographed or not. He won't push.

Damien continues to contort himself, and then laughs, "You signed your work."

When Mark only gives him a confused look, Damien shows him his left arm. "See? M.B. The weird blue scribble on my wrist."

"I didn't mean to do that," Mark says. But he can see what Damien's getting at. The paint does look like the signature Mark scrawls on the back of any pictures he's taken.

It's also uncomfortably close to where Mark had wrapped rope around Damien's arms last time he was here. Which reminds Mark—”You're not sore anywhere, are you? Your arms? Legs?"

"My foot's asleep. And my shoulders want to kill me," Damien says. He rolls his head from side to side, and there's a sharp crack as the bones click.

"You were meant to tell me if it got too much." Mark frowns, guilty now, starting to feel sick.

"It wasn't too much."

"You're in pain."

"Of course I'm in pain, I was sitting on my knees for an hour. I'll get over it." He gives Mark an amused, narrow eyed smile. "Stop worrying."

"It's my job to worry," Mark points out. "This is aftercare. Please tell me that the internet told you about aftercare."

"I don't need aftercare." Damien scoffs. "You barely did anything to me."

"And what if I need it?" Mark says.  

Whatever Damien was expecting him to say, it obviously wasn't that. His mouth closes, and he's frowning down at Mark now.

"I hurt you," Damien says finally.

"No, nothing like that." Mark shakes his head.

"Bullshit. You're upset. What did I do?"

"You didn't do anything."

"So why do you need aftercare?"

"Because I dommed you." Mark blows out a breath. "You're not the only one who goes to a special headspace during this. It doesn't really have anything to do with you, it's just something that happens to me. I need to know that you're ok, that I didn't hurt you and if I did then it's nothing permanent. I need to look after you, for a little bit."

Damien says, awkwardly. "I really am okay."

"I know. That doesn't stop me from worrying about it."

"What do you want from me?"

Mark shrugs, he aims a helpless smile upwards. "A hug would be nice."

Damien hesitates. "Wait here." He gathers up his abandoned clothes and disappears into the bathroom. Mark can't help but notice that he's limping slightly.

He rubs at the back of his neck, breathing in slowly in and out. He feels ridiculous. Damien's right, they barely did anything. He shouldn't be reacting this badly.

Damien doesn't make him wait long. He's back in his ragged jeans, though his coat frames a shirt that Mark knows for a fact Damien did not walk into the apartment wearing.

"I thought you didn't like that shirt," Mark jokes.

"I changed my mind," Damien answers. He stands in front of Mark, one arm looped around his opposite elbow. He's clearly uncomfortable.

"You don't have to hug me," Mark says. "I know it goes against your better than the rest of humanity deal to deign to touch another human being."

"Shut up, Bryant." Damien straddles his lap, cradling Mark's face in his hands.

The rest of Mark's joke dies in his throat.

"Hello." He says, unsure what to make of this. Mark wraps his arms around Damien's waist in a loose hug.

Damien rolls his eyes. "Hello," he parrots. His eyes dart down Mark's face, then glance to the side. Damien drops his hands to Mark's shoulders, tucking himself against Mark's chest. He feels something in his chest sit up and reach towards where Damien's head lays against him.  

"You really didn't have to do this." Mark says.

"Yeah I did. What else do you want me to do?"

"This is good," Mark says. He feels Damien's ability prodding at him. "Okay usually there's a lot more I do, but you really wouldn't be comfortable with them."

"What are they?"

"Normally I'd be pushing you into a shower to clean up. Maybe massage your shoulders and your legs to get the feeling back into them. Sex, if we were in the mood for it. I'd like to take you to bed and cuddle properly until you fell asleep but..." Mark shrugs, "None of this stuff is happening. I'll be okay. Really."

Damien's chin tilts down. "I shouldn't have come here."

"I told you, this isn't anything to do with you."

"But if you hadn't ordered me around earlier, you wouldn't feel like crap now. I'm the one who showed up. It was my idea. It's my fault."

"I knew what I was doing when I said yes." Mark asserts.

"Clearly, you didn't."

"I knew more than you did."

Damien draws away from Mark to give him a reproachful look. "That's even worse. You knew that you were going to feel like this afterwards, and you did it anyway. Are you an idiot? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I can deal with it. I'm dealing with it. I dealt with it last time."

Damien's eyes go wide. "This happened to you last time?"

Mark looks to the TV, where Netflix asks if he's still watching. "I hurt you, last time. I was stupid and didn't check the knots well enough and you walked out of my apartment with marks all over your wrists. I didn't know if I'd caused serious damage to your hands, or if you would be able to function without me right after the scene. So, yeah, I was kind of a mess after it."

"You should have told me."

"How? I don't have your number, and I wasn't going to just randomly turn up to your apartment to cook you dinner."

"You want to cook me dinner?" Damien asks.

"Of course that's the part you focus on." Mark huffs. "I don't know. It was an example. I want to fuss over you and make sure you're okay and you're not just telling me you are because I want you to."

"Why?"

"I—Really Damien? You need to ask that?"

Damien returns Mark's incredulous look with his usual flat scowl. "Answer the question."

"I don't know, I just want to. You understand _that_ don't you?"

It's Damien's turn to look away. "I really fucked you up last time when I left."

It's not a question. Mark answers anyway. "A bit."

"Am I going to fuck you up when I leave this time?"

"I don't know." Mark says. "Maybe. I'm always a little bit worried about you, anyway. If I had your phone number I could call."

And then, he's manoeuvring around Damien's legs to pull his phone out of his pocket. He hands it to Damien. With less exasperation than he should feel, Mark says,  "You could have asked."

"I don't need to ask when I know what your answer is going to be." Damien taps the screen, handing it back to Mark.

"That really doesn't make it any better. Isn't the whole reason you came over to stop things like that happening?"

Damien stills.

Mark rubs his thumb against Damien's waist. "I was joking. I'm not that mad."

Damien says. "What do you get out of this?"

"Out of domming you?"

A nod.

Mark hums. He pushes lightly at the small of Damien's back, until he's slotted back against Mark's chest.

"Control, I guess. I don't really have a lot of that in my life right now, and it's--well I don't have to tell you about what your power feels like when it's working. It puts me in a headspace where I don't care about all the other shit happening in my life right now. For however long I've got you, that's the only thing I'm focusing on. Even when you were the only person around I could talk to I was always thinking. What's Joanie doing, How's Sam, is the AM really still after me, what about everyone else still inside, what am I going to do, what does being awake mean now?"

His hands trace aimless patterns across Damien's back. "It's nice to not have to think about all the ways my life isn't up to me anymore. It's nice to know that I have this one small thing under my control.

"And the view's pretty nice as well, so."

Damien muffles what could be a laugh against Mark's shoulder. Mark just smiles, enjoying the feeling of warm leather against the palm of his hand.

They fall into a comfortable silence. Mark's hands wander up and down Damien's spine, digging his thumbs down into the knots that Damien no doubt has at the base of his shoulders. He can feel Damien relax under the ministrations. The power hums between the two of them, empty of any want except to have this for just a few moments longer.

It can't last. Joan will be home any minute. And even if she wasn't there's only so long that two grown men can cuddle on an armchair before it gets uncomfortable.

Eventually, Damien slides off Mark's lap. "I should go," He says, pulling at the collar of his jacket.

"Yeah," Mark agrees. He follows Damien to the door. "Feel free to call. Or text, or anything. I don't have anywhere else to be."

Damien nods. He hovers for a moment, pulling on his shoes. He looks up at Mark, something in his face that Mark doesn't know if he's reading right or not.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"For what?"

Damien shrugs. "Everything."

He leaves before Mark can work out what to say to that.

* * *

The next day, Mark stares at his phone for about an hour before hitting the call button.

It rings three times before he hears the click of the call connecting, and Damien's drawled, "Yeah?"

"It's Mark, since I didn't give you my number yesterday."

"What do you want?"

Mark dithers, "I know that you think that we don't need to talk about any of this but I would feel a lot better if we did talk about it."

"Okay," Damien says, slow. "What exactly do you need to tell me?"

"It's not me telling you, it's a talk. That we have, together." Which is really Mark's whole point here isn't it, god.

"What do you want us to talk about?" Damien says. Mark's not sure if he's reading into the annoyance or not.  

"What are your limits?"

"I told you, I don't have any." Definitely annoyed. "You do what you want to me, and I want it. That's how my power works."

"And after that? Because I remember your power doesn't change a want forever. After we get out of range, you remember that actually, you really didn't want what you did and then you feel like absolute crap. So what are your limits?"

The silence stretches.

"You don't know do you." Mark realises.

"I know," Damien says, hot. "I was thinking." He's silent for a moment longer though, before he says, "I don't want you to do anything permanent to me."

"Okay, what counts as permanent?"

"Don't cut my hair or shit like that. Don't do anything that won't take a few days to go back to normal."

"I can do that. What about things like bruises? Hickeys? Do those count as permanent?"

"I thought you didn't want to hurt me."

"I don't, but if I use rope on you again, and you fidget, you're going to carry the marks of it. So do I need to buy more cuffs, or are you good with that happening?"

Damien makes an odd, aborted sound. "You can mark me up however you want. I don't care."

"Really," Mark says, amused, "sounds like you do care. Did you like it? Did you go home that night and rub at your wrists just to feel like you were still tied up?"

"Shut up, Bryant!"

He grins, Mark's going to remember this fact about Damien. "You did!"

"Shut up!"

"Okay, I'll stop." The grin turns fond, "But I do want to know what you like."

"Do you really need me to spell out everything?"

"I could keep guessing if you want, but it might get a little embarrassing for you that way."

Damien makes a truly, exasperated sound.

"It's really not that hard, Damien."

"Then you can go first."

"If you're trying to get me embarrassed that's not going to work."

"That doesn't sound like you answering the question."

Mark laughs. Okay. If that's the game Damien wants to play, he'll play. "I like tying you up. I like you on your knees, looking up at me like I'm the entire world. I like hearing you. You make really lovely sounds when you forget to hide them. And I like it when you're overwhelmed, and don't know what you should be focusing on." Then Mark pauses, there's more, technically but...

"And?" Damien says.

"Could I kiss you?"

There's a pause. Mark fidgets, regretting it. "Never mind." he says.

At the same time, Damien says, "I think your girlfriend might take offence to you kissing other people."

"I don't have a girlfriend." Mark rubs the back of his neck. "Where did you get the idea that I did? I haven't exactly had the chance to go out and meet people right now."

"You met Sam."

"Oh. Yeah, _I'm_ not the one dating Sam." Joanie, on the other hand… Not that she tells Mark anything of course.

"You acted like it." Damien says. "Before."

"And then I was with you for months on end. Maybe there would have been something, but people move on. Sam and me are two of those people. She's really not... involved in any of this."

"If you're not dating, you can do whatever you want to me," Damien says.

"I really hate it when you say things like that."

"It's true though, I don't care. You can fuck me if you want."

Mark stills. He wets his lips, head tilting down. "Really."

"Yeah. I keep telling you, you can do whatever you want to me so long as it's not permanent."

Mark bites at his lip. "Taking your virginity's a little permanent, Damien."

"I'm not--"

Mark sighs, and cuts him off. "Yeah, you are. Don't bother lying, it's obvious. And I—I'm not really sure I'm comfortable with that."

"Why not?"

"Because it's—Because you should lose it with someone special. Someone you care about. Not just the guy you use to unwind when everything gets too much."

"That's not what you are."

"It doesn't matter what I am, I'm still not having sex with you."

"Not even if you were my boyfriend?" Damien says, low.

"I'm not your boyfriend." And this is so fucking off track. "You're just going to lead me around in circles if I ask you what you like again, aren't you."

Silence.

Mark blows out a breath, "Okay. You like whatever I like, got it." Because that's not going to fucking backfire in his face at all.

"That's how it works."

It's really not, but Mark is sick of arguing about it.

"Was that everything?" Damien says. "Or do you want me to sign a contract too?"

"Stop getting all your information off of Google," Mark sighs. "Yeah that's... that's it. Text me the next time you need to let go. Or just want to hang out, or anything."

"You want me around?" Damien asks, and there's something in the way he says it that makes Mark's heart hurt.

"You're my friend," Mark says. "Of course I want you around."

Damien is a lot of things, kidnapper, saviour, sub, pain in the ass. Somewhere in that tangled mess there must be some room for them to be friends.

Mark hears a key turning in the door. "Shit, I need to go," He says, "Try to think about what you actually like okay? Bye."

"Bye."

He hangs up. Joan comes into the living room, and raises an eyebrow at him. "Have you been sitting here all day?"

"No," Mark denies, putting everything out of his mind. "How was work? Still extremely morally dubious and filled with other people's problems?"

"I am a therapist, that's generally how it works."

"Yeah, but does it really need to include the morally dubious part..."

* * *

The hot water from the shower pounds against Mark's skin, soothing sore muscles and various aches and pains he's accumulated over the day. He closes his eyes, tipping his face into the spray.

Out of all the things to miss in ghost town, warm showers have turned out to be one of the weirdest. Human interaction sure, food sure, sex, oh definitely. But nothing had prepared Mark for the sheer physical relief it had been the first time he'd taken a shower. Joanie no doubt despairs over the water bill these days. Mark can never quite bring himself to care about it long enough to not spend hours in the shower.

His mind drifts. Wandering aimlessly through daydreams borne of TV show plots, what he's done for the past few days. Joan, Sam, the AM ...Damien.

How Damien had looked when Mark had taken the blindfold off his face. Hazel eyes blown so wide, parted lips that were just begging to be kissed.

He shouldn't be thinking about this. This is exactly the sort of daydream that will only lead to trouble later. But he keeps getting caught on the thought of how soft Damien's lip was against his thumb. On the thought of what Damien's mouth would look like wrapped around Mark's cock.

He reaches down, grasping himself and strokes. Replaying the half second where Damien's cheeks hollowed around his thumb and he'd sucked. Mark hadn't let himself think about it in the scene, but he does now. He imagines that wet heat, Damien's tongue, the feeling of his hair when Mark buries his fingers in it.

Damien would let Mark fuck him. He might even want Mark to fuck him... Damien would let Mark do whatever he wants to him. Earlier that thought was awful, another red flag. Right now, it just sounds like Mark's gotten his birthday present early this year.

Mark bites his lip.

If sex was on the table, if it wasn't the fucking awful idea that it would be, Mark would tie Damien to his bed. Hands above his head, each wrist in a cuff, the other end anchored to the headboard. Maybe he'd use the blindfold, or maybe he'd let Damien see, just so Mark could watch as his pupil swallowed up his iris.

He'd take his time with Damien. Suck kisses into his skin, scrape his teeth against the sensitive area of Damien's chest at the bottom of his ribcage. Play with his nipples until Damien begged him to stop. And then do it some more, until Damien was just begging. And only then, when he was arching up for more,  would Mark settle between Damien's legs and give the same attention to his cock.

Damien's so sensitive already Mark doubts he'd last long at all. He'd look gorgeous when he came. Mark can see it, Damien's eyes scrunched up, wanting to hide but unable to thanks to the binds on his arms. His chest heaving with the effort to stay still, to not jerk up into Mark's mouth.

But eventually he'd fall apart. He'd shatter under Mark's hands, his mouth, his cock. Would he moan Mark's name? Mark wants him to.  

Mark's hand speeds up around himself, head tilting back, chasing his own orgasm. He doesn't last long, finishing in a mess across his stomach.

It occurs to Mark, as the water wicks the evidence down the drain, that he's in way over his head.


	3. Chapter 3

A routine settles between the two of them. Mark texts Damien, Damien sometimes texts back. Sometimes when Damien comes over to the apartment he wants to be taken down, and sometimes he's just there because Mark's missed a classic science fiction movie that he needs to see immediately. Sometimes, Damien even deigns to watch one of the romance movies that he hates so much with Mark. He talks all the way through them of course, but Mark finds that sometimes that adds to the experience. 

And every two weeks, on a Wednesday afternoon, Damien comes to Mark's apartment looking like he's been absolutely stretched to his limit and past it. They don't talk about it. Damien doesn't want to, and Mark doesn't want to push. 

The shoebox is already out, along with the only sweatpants Mark owns that fit around Damien's skinny hips, when the knock on the apartment door finally comes. 

Damien stumbles into the apartment, one hand wrapped around the opposite elbow. Even when Mark makes him look up, his eyes don't meet Mark's gaze. 

"Hey," Mark says. He steps purposefully into Damien's space. Damien steps back, until he's pressed against the wall next to the front door. Mark tilts his head up, thumb against Damien's chin. Damien still won't look at him straight. 

Mark swallows, "What's the safeword?" 

"Red." Damien says. Mark doesn't need to reach for his power. The black threads leap across the divide between them, coiling around Mark's fingers by themselves. Damien slumps backwards, mouth parting as he lets out a ragged sigh.

It's not a good sign that Mark can get him down so quickly. It means that whatever Damien needs to decompress from he's let it push him to a breaking point, beyond it even. 

Mark strokes his hair anyway, leaning down to brush his lips against Damien's. "There you go," He says. "Is that better?"

Damien nods. 

"Strip." Mark orders, releasing Damien. He turns away, knowing what he wants out of his shoebox and grabbing them. There's the sound of shifting cloth behind him, the sound of a buckle opening. Mark could turn around, watch as Damien takes off his armour, bares himself to the world. 

He doesn't. He waits, playing with the chain of the cuffs he's holding. Only when he can't hear the sound of clothes rustling, does Mark turn around. But he's not good enough to not appreciate the view as he walks back towards Damien. He's not good enough to not press another kiss into the divot of Damien's hip when Mark pulls up the sweatpants. Damien's stomach jumps with a sharp inhale when Mark's lips touch bare skin. 

When he stands again, Damien's throat bobs. 

"Hold out your wrists," Mark says. He caresses each limb, pressing another kiss into each jumping pulse point, before he straps the black leather of the cuffs around them. Damien's so skinny, Mark's throat aches with the want to to take care of him. "Have you eaten today?" 

A head shake. 

Mark strokes Damien's bound wrists. "On your knees," he murmurs. "I want you to kneel by the chair for the rest of the night, can you do that for me?"

"...Yes." Damien says, far away. 

Mark rewards him with another brief kiss, before he draws away. "I'll be back soon," He promises. 

There are apples in the kitchen. Mark cuts up two of them into slices, giving each slice little bunny ears with an extra two flicks of the paring knife. He sets the plate down on his lap when he sits down in the armchair. Damien is to his left, staring down at the ground, one of his thumbnails digging into the skin of his other arm. 

"Stop that," Mark orders. 

The hands still. 

"Good boy." Mark picks up one of the apple slices, and holds it out in front of Damien's mouth. Damien stares at it, uncomprehending, for a second. Then his teeth are brushing against Mark's fingertips as he takes the apple slice from Mark, biting down on the sweet flesh. 

Mark holds out a second apple-bunny as soon as Damien's swallowed down the first. This time Damien takes it immediately, another brush of his lips against Mark's fingers when he bites down. 

Mark wets his lips, staring down at Damien's closed eyes. 

This is new. He’s surprised at the strength of his reaction. The happy, warm curl in his gut that grows with each bunny Damien takes from his hands. He shouldn’t be, really, hasn’t this always been about taking care of Damien? Hasn’t it thrown Mark into domspace as fast as he’s gotten Damien into subspace by doing it? 

Together they go through half the bowl before Damien turns his head away. Mark presses the apple against his closed lips. 

"You're sure you don't want it?" 

A nod. 

"Tell me if you change your mind." Mark eats the rejected apple slice himself. It crunches on his molars, juice spilling onto his tongue and the inside of his cheek. "Is there anything else you want?" 

There's only half a chance he'll get any reply to that. Sometimes Damien's completely non-verbal when he's like this, other times Mark gets to hear the only time he'd ever describe Damien's voice as sweet. This time it's the first, and Damien shakes his head. 

But he's looking down, thumbnail back against the skin of his arm. Fidgeting with the chain of the cuffs. 

"Damien," Mark prompts. 

Damien's head turns even further away. Mark takes his chin, pulling his head back until he can meet Damien's gaze. 

"You do want something," Mark says. "I can't give it to you unless you tell me what it is you want." 

An unhappy little noise. Barely there as air against Mark's arm. 

Mark wants him to say what he wants. 

"Need more," Damien says, soft and guilt ridden. 

"Need more of what?" 

"Ties." The chain between Damien's hands jingles. 

"You want me to tie you up more?" Mark asks, "I don't have any more cuffs, but I've got rope. Do you want me to use that on you? I can wrap it up your arms, until your forearms are pressed together. Or your feet. Do you want me to bind your ankles, Damien? Do you want me to make it so you can't walk anymore?" 

"Please," Damien breathes. 

Well, how can Mark refuse when Damien asks so nicely. 

"Good boy," Mark praises. He takes his hand off Damien's chin, brushing a thumb under Damien's eye before he removes the contact completely. 

He can feel Damien's gaze on him as he finds the coil of silk rope in the shoebox. It's not the stuff he used on Damien before. He bought this when he bought the cuffs, something softer, kinder to Damien's skin than the Magician’s rope was. Something that will only leave bruises when Mark wants it to. 

When he looks up Damien's eyes are firmly fixed on the ground again. Mark gives him a fond smile. He's embarrassed, Mark thinks. It's kind of sweet really, that after being fed apple slices from Mark's fingers, it's being asked to have his ankles bound that makes Damien shy. 

"Cross your legs," Mark orders, coming back to Damien. He kneels down, running a hand down Damien's leg from his knee to his ankle as Damien rearranges himself to accommodate Mark's order. 

Damien shivers when Mark loops the first rope coil around his ankle. The rope is red, bright against Damien's brown skin, and the grey of the sweatpants. He can't help but run his thumb over the first loop, tracing over and under it, sliding the rope around in the process of checking exactly how tight he's tying Damien. 

"Mark." Damien says, an edge of begging in the word. "Mark, please." 

Mark looks up at him, swallowing when he spots the desperation clear on Damien's face. It's a very good look on him. Mark has a feeling that this is another sight that he's going to revisit later, when it's safe to. When Damien isn't right in front of him, and will do literally anything Mark wants him to. 

Damien bites at his lip. 

"That's enough teasing." Mark says. 

He wraps a generous amount of rope around the place where Damien's legs cross at his ankles, testing the bindings over and over before he's satisfied and finally ties the knot off. Then he runs the lengths of rope up Damien's leg, tracing the path he made earlier in loops of rope spaced every few inches from each other until he ties the last loop just under Damien's knee. 

With a second piece of rope, Mark makes a loop around that last knot. He threads the other end of it through the black cuffs around Damien's wrist. The loop of rope is short, just enough space for Damien to lift his hand up his hand an inch or two before the tension would stop him. 

When Mark repeats it with his other hand and leg, the ropes pull the chain of the cuffs taut. Damien can't even put his hands together when he's finished.

He can tell when Damien realises. His hands pull, first trying to go up, then together. With each failure, Damien whines. A wordless, frustrated noise. And then he stills, looking at Mark with huge, dark eyes. 

"Better?" Mark asks, voice thick. 

He can tell how far down Damien's sunk into subspace. God he wants... 

Damien nods. 

"Use your words." 

"...Yes." 

Mark waits. 

"It's better." 

"And this is everything you wanted?"

"Yes."

"Good. What's your safeword?" 

"Red." 

"Good boy." He smiles, getting up off his knees. Damien's head presses against Mark's leg as soon as he sits back in the armchair. Mark answers in kind, carding his hand through Damien's hair, scritching lightly at the back of his neck.

He mumbles something inaudible into the fabric of Mark's jeans. 

"Hmm?" 

"I'm not," Damien repeats, louder. 

"You're not what?" 

"Good." His head turns away, dislodging Mark's hand from his hair. 

Mark narrows his eyes. This is new. Oh, sure, out of subspace this is exactly the kind of thing Damien says. He hides behind layers of indifference and hate and plain ignorance of what normal people act like to hide all the ways he's scared of being part of anything social.

But this is the first time that Mark's heard him hide behind those shields while he's dropped deep in subspace. 

"Why don't you think you're good?" He asks. 

"I'm not." 

"That's not what I asked, Damien." 

"I'm not," Damien repeats, distressed. "She always tells me I'm not good." 

"Who tells you?" Mark demands. But he has a sinking feeling that he already knows who Damien's talking about. 

Silence. 

"Damien, tell me." 

"Dr B," Damien confirms. 

Shit. 

Mark puts his hand on the back of Damien's neck again, rubbing his thumb in soothing circles. He deliberately pitches his voice softer, gentle. He wants Damien to tell him the truth. "What did Joanie tell you?"

Damien ducks his head again, wrists pulling at his restraints. "She says I'm no good. That I'm pathetic. A monster. Weak." He sounds so horribly broken as he says it. 

"Damien," Mark says. "Why the fuck would she say those things to you?" 

"Because I can't control what I do." 

"You're going to Joanie to figure out how to control your power?"

A nod. Damien's cheek rubbing against Mark's leg. 

"Does Joanie know that's why you're seeing her?" Mark has to ask. Because Damien has proved over and over that he's not the best at either boundaries or communication. 

Another nod. 

"And Joanie said yes? She told you she'd help you. You didn't make her agree to it."

Damien nods again. 

Mark muffles a curse behind his lips. He doesn't want to be mad at Joan. That doesn't change the fact that he is. What the fuck was she thinking? He knows the two of them well enough to know exactly how Damien's supposed therapy sessions go: Damien hiding all the ways he's in pain and terrified behind his abrasive personality. Lashing out whenever he had any opportunity to. Joan, holding onto old and new grudges, just as scared, though she’d never admit to it. Never looking below the surface except to hurt. 

They've been destroying each other in increments from the very beginning. From the fact that Damien's currently sitting at Mark's feet, that hasn't changed in the slightest. 

Mark shifts his hand from the back of Damien's neck, to his chin, forcing his head up to look at Mark. Damien refuses to meet his gaze. There's something about the unhappy tilt of his mouth that Mark—

"Damien. I'm not going to hurt you." 

The corner of his mouth curves up. A smirk, Mark can almost hear the "Of course not" that Damien must be thinking. 

"Fuck what Joanie says, I think you're good," Mark says. "Yeah, sometimes you're kind of crap at showing it, but you're trying. You're trying to get your ability under control, even though it's hard, and the person you're asking for help isn't making it any easier for you to learn. You are capable of being good."

"Stop." Some of the threads around Mark's fingers threaten to unravel from him. Mark grabs them. 

"No." Mark wants Damien to listen, to believe him. "You are a good person. If anyone else had your ability they'd be running the world, or funding a crime empire, or screwing people over. Apart from the whole—bullshit you did to me, the only time I've seen you do that is when you have to pay for something. And, honestly? That's a hell of a lot less than what I would do with the power to make anyone in the world do what I wanted.

"You're absolutely useless at connecting with other human beings, and you talk like a fucking super villain half the time but that doesn't make you bad. You're an asshole, but you're not inherently a monster, or whatever the fuck you've told yourself." 

Mark leans down, and presses a kiss to Damien's frown. "You're good, Damien," Mark murmurs against his lips and deepens the kiss. The angle is terrible, Mark's back protests being contorted down into this position after only a few minutes. Damien as well, clearly has no fucking clue what he's doing. His lips are slack, unresponsive against Mark's; either out of shock or because he doesn't know how to kiss properly. It's probably both. It's not like Damien's had many people in his life who would want to kiss him. He's trembling under Mark's hands. 

Mark tilts Damien's head further upwards. Wanting—

And then Damien's kissing back, and it's perfect. Weirdly perfect. The type of perfect that only happens when you're making out with someone with empathy, or telepathy, or mind control. The perfect that relies on one person in the room knowing exactly what the other wants. 

When Mark finally listens to his back and draws away, he's panting, face flushed red. Damien isn't any better. His lips are swollen, used. And his eyes have turned almost completely black again. His skin's dark enough it's difficult to tell if he's blushing or not, but the hand Mark's left on Damien's cheek feels hotter than it should. 

"Beautiful," Mark says. He watches Damien's eyes close. That's okay, Mark will let him hide for now. "You are. You have no idea what you look like right now, do you. What you do to me, seeing you like this, on your knees for me. Tied up for me. You're so fucking beautiful. I want to mark you up when you're like this. Write my name on you again, so everyone knows who you belong to. I want to take pictures, so I won't just have my memory to rely on when this is over." 

Damien's brow furrows. 

"I'm not going to," Mark reassures. "I know you hate having your picture taken. I just think it's a damn shame; someone with cheekbones like yours deserves to have their face displayed in an art gallery. Anyway," Mark's voice drops, "I don't think I want to share this with anyone else. I want to be the only person around who knows what you look like when you're in subspace." 

Damien shudders. 

"I want you." Mark says, and Damien whimpers. "Open your eyes, Damien," Mark orders. 

Damien does. This time his eyes meet Mark's, unfocused. His expression is so open, vulnerable. Lost, like he can't comprehend why Mark would say this to him. 

"I want you." Mark repeats. "I want you to know how much I want you." 

He pushes out the emotion. He wants Damien to know that Mark wants him, that he worries about him, that he wishes that Damien would take care of himself better, or let Mark take care of him more. He wants Damien to know that he's Mark's. His friend, his sub, and yes, his kidnapper too, but Mark's forgiven him for that. He wants Damien to know that Mark wants him around. That Mark wants to watch movies with him, and have Damien sit at his feet, and in his lap. Or even just hang around the apartment and play the video games they missed thanks to either coma or lack of friends. 

Damien tilts his face into Mark's palm, shaking, breath catching when he inhales. He goes absolutely boneless under the want. 

Mark makes sure that Damien doesn't know exactly how hot Mark finds that. He curls his hand in Damien's hair, stroking the dark brown curls, wanting Damien to feel good. To feel wanted. To feel looked after. 

Damien plants his cheek on Mark's legs, and lets out a breath that takes all the tension he's been holding in his body with it. 

"Good boy," Mark says, softly. 

Damien makes a little humming noise. He nuzzles Mark's leg, stubble scratching against denim. Mark just cards his fingers through Damien's hair, enjoying the feeling of the silky strands running between his fingers, enjoying the sight of Damien subtly turning his head into the motion of it. 

His eyes close again. Relaxing, mouth going slack like he’s ready to sleep.  

Mark can't help but smile down at him, formless want passing through him, running to Damien. He wants to remember this. He wants to remember every moment where Damien proves he's capable of being soft. 

They sit like that for awhile. Mark loses time on it. Outside of this, he would be worried about that. He's spent so fucking long being imprisoned in timeless voids that now when he can't feel the seconds pass by he feels trapped in that bubble. He doesn't feel trapped right now. Damien's slow breaths in and out replace the ticking of a clock. And Mark thinks, that he wouldn't really mind, if this was a timeless bubble that he was trapped in. 

It's a surprise when the door opens. There's no time to hide anything. Damien tenses under Mark's hands, almost flinching. 

Joanie takes one look at the two of them, and stops short. "What is this?" she asks, voice steel. 

Mark meets her glare. "Hi Joan, aren't you meant to be at work?" 

"I had a last minute cancellation and decided to come home early. Why is Damien kneeling on the floor of my living room?" 

Damien buries his face further into Mark's leg, trembling minutely. His eyes are scrunched up, all of him non-verbally begging for Mark to make Joan not be here. 

"None of your business." Mark snaps. He wishes he'd had the foresight to put Damien at his other side, so that he'd be hidden by the armchair and Mark's legs from the front door, instead of being directly in view as soon as it opened. 

"It's my house," Joan insists, "I don't recall ever allowing Damien to visit."

"Yeah, that's because I'm the one who let him in," Mark says. 

The annoyance builds. He can't help but want Joan to not be here. To be anywhere else, instead of blatantly staring at Damien, at his cuffs, at the red silk ribbons wrapped around his ankles, at his bare torso. 

Joan stiffens, and turns around. Marching to the kitchen, where she won't be in direct view of the living room. "Stop it. Damien!" 

That's not Damien. There's no way for it to be Damien, Mark's still holding all of his power in his fists. Which means that Mark's just used Damien's ability on his sister. Great, Joanie's going to murder him. 

Guiltily, Mark is glad that Joanie's no longer in the room. Damien's still trembling, hiding his face, seeming to not have noticed that Joanie's disapproving stare is no longer aimed at him directly. 

There's no way Mark can send him home like this. He'll go into subdrop as soon as Mark tries. But there's no way he can stay in the living room either, not with Joanie in the house. 

"Damien," Mark says, gentle. "Look at me." 

He wants Damien to feel safe. To not be worried about Joan, to not care about her. Even with the want, it takes an agonizing minute where Damien presses the bridge of his nose into Mark's leg, quivering with unease, before he eventually looks up at Mark. His eyes are wet, unshed tears brimming at the corners of them. 

"I'm sorry," Mark says. He cups Damien's face, thumb rubbing circles into Damien's rough stubble. "I'll fix this. I promise. Go into my room, okay Damien?" 

"Okay." Damien shifts slightly, moving away from Mark, before he stops. "Mark." 

Oh, yeah, there's no way he can walk when his legs and wrists are tied together. Mark grabs the safety scissors and slices through all the silk knots. First the ones on his wrists, then the main loop trapping his ankles. The ladder up either leg falls off as soon as Damien stands, shedding red ribbon onto the carpet. 

Mark puts a hand on the small of Damien's back, leading him down the hallway to Mark's bedroom door. 

"Stay here," He tells Damien. "I'll be back soon." 

Mark shuts the door, hating himself. Joan is in the living room when he returns, surveying the mess Mark's left with a critical eye, arms crossed. Mark ignores her as best he can, gathering up the ribbons of discarded silk, the safety scissors, the little bowl of apple slices. 

"So," Joan says. "Why is Damien currently tied up in your bedroom?"

"He's not tied—" 

Joan makes a disappointed sound. Mark drops it. 

"It really isn't any of your business," he says. "I'm a consenting adult. Damien's a consenting adult. You don't have anything to do with it."

"Damien's ability by its very nature means that you can't consent."

"Damien doesn't have his ability." Mark turns to face Joan, crossing his arms. "And I'm a mimic, remember? Whatever he's doing to me, I'm doing right back at him. That cancels it out." 

"What do you mean, Damien doesn't have his ability?" 

"I—" Mark shrugs. "He comes over, I take it away for a bit. The rest is... extra."

Joan raises her eyebrows. "Damien  _ seeks you out  _ to take his ability away?" 

"Yeah, he does." Mark snaps, "Apparently you're doing so well at coaching him through getting control of his power that he feels like he has to come to me, so he doesn't have to think about anything for a few hours." 

"I did not cause this," Joan says, absolutely appalled.

Mark's head drops. His shoulders are up against his ears. He feels hot, feverish, a sick feeling building in his stomach. He rubs the back of his neck. "You didn't help either." he mutters. 

"This isn't about me," Joan says, arms crossing, "This is about you and Damien."

"Yeah, exactly," Mark says. “So you don't need to know. It's private." 

"If it was private then you shouldn't have done whatever it was in the living room. Which leads me back to my original question, why is Damien currently tied up in your bedroom?" 

"He's not tied up—"

"He's wearing cuffs around his wrists," Joan interrupts. 

Fuck. He forgot to take them off. Mark screws up his eyes, breathes in deeply. "Okay, he's tied up in my bedroom. It's still private, Joanie. You don't need to know every single detail about my sex life." 

"You've been having sex with him?" Joan shouts. 

"No!" 

"Then what have you been doing?" 

Mark says, "I've been domming him." The words sour on his tongue. He rubs the back of his neck. "There, are you happy? Now you know. And before you get the wrong idea, it's not a sex thing. It's a power exchange thing. I take away his ability, he lets me tie him up. Nothing—happens."

"Why?" Joan asks. 

Mark shrugs. "Because it feels good." 

"Mark," Joan says. He hates the pity he can hear in her voice, "Mark, you don't have to do what Damien wants anymore. He doesn't have control over you." 

"Yeah, Joan. That's kind of the fucking point." Mark says. 

"I don't understand." 

"You don't have to." Mark turns away, picking up the shoebox. "Just, let me get Damien safe, and you can yell at me all you like. But right now, I need to do this." 

"You don't need to do anything."

Mark ignores her. He walks towards his bedroom. 

"Mark!"

"Sorry, Joanie. Right now Damien's a lot more important to me than whatever lecture you think I need."

He opens the door to his room, closing it firmly shut behind him, wishing he had a lock. He can hear Joan's retreating footsteps. Right—while Mark's in here Joan will do what he wants. She's really going to kill him later. 

Damien is where Mark left him. Exactly where Mark left him. Head down, gaze firmly fixed to the carpeting. Still trembling. Mark swallows, depositing the shoebox on his bed and stepping forwards into Damien's space. He cups Damien's face, tilting it upwards until Mark can see the tear tracks drying on Damien's cheeks. Damien's eyes are glassy, not focusing on Mark. 

"Fuck," Mark breathes. He wipes away the tears. "I'm so fucking sorry Damien." 

Damien doesn't say anything. He doesn't even move, either towards or away from Mark's ministrations. The sick feeling in Mark's stomach that's been gnawing at his insides since he shut the door on Damien scrapes at the lining of his stomach. He shouldn't have left Damien alone. Joan or no Joan, you don't leave your sub tied up and abandoned. 

Not to mention what happened the last time someone left Damien alone because of his power. 

"Let's get you out of these," Mark says. He takes Damien's wrists, undoing the straps on each cuff, dropping the leather to the floor as soon as Damien's free of it. One of his wrists is red, rubbed raw from Damien scratching at his own skin. If Damien cares about the loss of the cuffs, he doesn't make any indication of it to Mark. He's so quiet, too quiet. It's awful. 

Mark wishes he would say something. 

He pulls Damien to the bed, curling up against the headboard with Damien's head on his lap. Mark runs fingers through Damien's hair. No reaction, neither good or bad. 

It's uncomfortably like those few days on the roadtrip after Mark broke Damien's head. Damien trapped inside his own thoughts, suddenly adrift from the only life he'd known. When Mark hadn't cared enough except to stop Damien from hurting himself, or anyone else from hurting him. 

For all that Damien said that he wanted that road trip back, whatever he and Mark have been doing since returning home has never reminded Mark of those awful, dark and empty moments. 

"I'm sorry," Mark says again. "I shouldn't have left you alone. I should have told Joanie to fuck off to begin with. I'm sorry." 

Damien doesn't make any acknowledgement that Mark's spoken at all. It hurts. More than it should.  

_ "Damien." _ Mark says, voice thick with tears. He reaches for the black threads of Damien's ability, still held tight in his mental grasp. He doesn't want to have them anymore, he doesn't want Damien's ability. He wants Damien to say something, anything. He wants some acknowledgement that Mark's here, that he's alive and not a fucking ghost. 

He pushes the strands back into Damien's head. They don't want to go, they want to stay coiled around Mark's wrists, his fingers. Mark forces them, shoving the ends he's grasped away, ripping them out of his hold. 

Damien makes a small, pained whimper.

Mark barely hears him, too busy tearing away from Damien's ability. It feels like he's taking safety scissors to his soul, severing the ties between the two of them as fast as he possibly can. 

Then he's looking up, Damien's legs around his waist, his hands pressing at Mark's shoulders. "Stop." Damien says. "Whatever you're doing fucking stop it right now. Red." 

Mark pauses. It's too late anyway. Damien's ability is back in his own head, there's only one tiny black thread that Mark hasn't managed to tear apart. He looks up at Damien with wide eyes. Drinking in the sight of him, the angry tilt of Damien's mouth, his narrowed gaze. 

This wasn't at all how Mark imagined bringing him up from subspace. He sniffs, throwing his arms around Damien's waist. "I'm sorry." He says, into Damien's bare chest. 

Damien shivers, pulling away from Mark. "I'm okay." He says. 

"You weren't." 

"I am now." Damien frowns. "Stop worrying about me." 

"I told you, it's my job to worry about you." 

"It shouldn't be." 

"You're my sub," Mark says. He wants to hug Damien more than this. He wants to press Damien against his mattress and let his hands roam over all the bits of skin Damien will let him touch. He wants to soothe the raw skin on his wrists. He wants to kiss him breathless. He wants—

Damien closes his eyes, looking away from Mark. "Red," Damien says. "I'm not your anything. Remember? You're just the guy I use to unwind with when the world gets too much for me." 

Mark stops. He closes his eyes and breathes, slow, counting to ten on the inhale and exhale. "Right," Mark says. "Right, that's all I am." That's all he's meant to be. That's all he wants to be. That's all Mark can let himself be. 

Damien nods. He slides off Mark's lap, perching on the edge of the bed. Every inch that Damien moves away from Mark feels like a spike going through his heart. 

"I should go," Damien says. 

Mark doesn't want Damien to know any of what he wants. "Are you going to be okay, if you leave?"

"Yeah," Damien says. He stands, casting around for his clothes. They're still in the living room, Mark forgot to bring them with him. Fuck. Damien steals one of Mark's shirts from his dresser. "Are you going to be okay?" 

No, Mark doesn't say, "yeah." He wants Damien to believe him. So Damien does. 

Damien looks at him one last time, evaluating. Eventually, he nods, "You can tell your sister not to worry. I won't corrupt you anymore, or whatever the fuck it is she thinks we're doing." 

"I told her the truth," Mark admits. 

Damien sneers. "Did she believe you?"

Mark's silence answers for him. 

"I thought so. Thank's for—thanks. Bye Mark." The door closes. 

"Bye Damien," Mark says to an empty room. 

He holds himself together long enough to hear the front door open and close. As soon as he hears it click shut behind him, Mark turns on his side, hugging his arms around him. 

Sleep, when it comes, is full of nightmares. 

* * *

Mark sends ten texts before he gives up. Damien is obviously ghosting him, and Mark can't work out what to say enough to call. He doubts Damien would even pick up the phone if he tried, anyway.

Wednesday comes and goes. No Damien. Joan is home early, Mark tries very hard not to read anything into that. It doesn't work. 

"Did Damien go to therapy?" Mark asks. 

Joan pretends she doesn't hear him. Mark doesn't bother trying to ask again. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The role of Sam was played by [Laughablyunimportant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughablyunimportant/pseuds/laughablyunimportant)

The knock on the door is a surprise. For a minute Mark's not sure what he's meant to do with it. He stares at the door, head full of fog. He should probably get that, shouldn't he. There's no one else home. He doesn't move.

The knock comes again. A few fast raps against the wood, a pause, and then another fast rap. Mark recognises that knock: Sam. 

He throws the door open. On the other side, Sam startles. Her eyes go wide, hand still held up to knock. 

"Oh! Mark!"

Mark matches her smile, "Hey Sam. I wasn't expecting you over today." 

God, it's been a long time since he's talked to her alone. Since he's gotten back home there's always been someone else in the room. There's always been Joan in the room, if Mark's going to be completely accurate. 

"I was supposed to meet Joan here. I'm guessing she's not in?" Sam says. 

"She's still at work. Did you have a date planned?" Mark teases, just a bit. He steps out of the doorway, inviting Sam in. 

Sam blushes, a hint of red across her pale cheeks, as she steps into the apartment. "Um, yes. Well, sort of. I mean, dinner usually means date, right? But she didn't actually  _ say _ and I didn't want to assume." She swings one hand up to clutch at her elbow. "Do you think it's a bad sign that she forgot?" 

"It's Joan, she forgets everything when she's buried in work. I'm sure it doesn't mean anything." Mark reassures. 

"Yeah." Sam sits next to him on the couch. Then she abruptly stands back up and starts pacing. "It's just, she can be so hard to read sometimes. Like, Sam, would you like to go to dinner? And of course I say yes. I mean, she's brilliant and beautiful and  _ so  _ much more put together than me. But we've had dinner together before, as friends, so even though we've been moving toward this, have we really? Is she on the same page as me? How am I even supposed to tell when I send her twenty texts and she sends back a single yes?" She stops dead in her tracks, voice going high. "Oh my god. I texted her twenty times in one day. I'm a crazy person. This is what a crazy person does." 

Mark stands, and puts his hands on her shoulders. "You're not a crazy person. Promise. And hey, no putting yourself down. You're far cooler than Joanie is. She's lucky to have someone as amazing as you interested in her." 

Tension drops out of Sam's shoulders. She smiles up at him, self-deprecating. "The clinically anxious social recluse whose best friend was, until very recently a cat? That amazing someone?" 

Mark pokes her. "Yeah, my determined, incredibly brave and talented friend who  _ rescued  _ me." 

The smile shifts to something warmer, more genuine. "Thank you." Sam bites her lip. "Is this, weird for you? Me, dating Joan, when we were... whatever we were?"

Mark tilts his head. He hasn’t ever had to think about this enough to put it into words. He admits, "It was a little shocking when I first got back. It felt a bit like I'd missed a conversation at the start. But you're happy. And I've gotten used to seeing you being together. It's not weird anymore."

Sam hugs him. "You're a really good person." 

Mark hugs her back, glad she can't see his face. He has a feeling that whatever his expression is, Sam will be able to read a lot more than Mark wants her to from it. "I try."

Sam pulls out of the hug, sitting down on the couch again. "But, what about you! We haven't really talked much; what've you been up to?" 

Mark joins her. Joan's paper pile has finally migrated back to her office, so there's actually space for two people on it again. His smile freezes. "Not much. getting used to being home still. Annoying Joanie. Working my way through all the pop culture I missed out on." 

"That's a pretty big backlog. I'm sure I don't have to remind you to visit the outside world on occasion." Sam says, smiling. 

Mark looks away. The last time he went outside to get anything he freaked out a bunch of people for talking to himself. He hasn't tried since then. "Yeah. It's nice being able to really feel sunlight on my skin again," he says. Sam doesn't need to know about how fucked his head is these days. 

"I get you," Sam says, sympathetic, "Have you reached out to anyone you knew from before?"

"Not really. It's a little awkward when the conversation stalls at "so while you were being a successful artist I got kidnapped and ended up in a coma. Anyway, how's that acting career going for you?""

Sam gives him a concerned look. "But you're not totally alone, right? you've still got Joan at least?" 

"Joanie and I haven't really been seeing eye to eye lately." 

That gets him another, more concerned look. Apparently Joanie hasn't shared all the ways that Mark's sabotaged his life to her girlfriend. "Why not? What happened?"

Mark shrugs. "Joanie thinks I did something stupid." 

Anger creeps into Sam's voice. "Is she keeping you cooped up inside? I know she's worried about the AM but I told her that they don't have any plans to come after you now. She should know better than to keep you prisoner again."

"No. It's nothing like that," Mark smiles, looking back at Sam. "Joan's been pushing me to get out more, if anything. Wait, how do you know that about the AM?" 

"I...may have been keeping an eye on their internal systems," Sam says in a rush. 

Mark's eyes narrow. "Have you been hacking the AM?" 

"Maybe? A little. I'm being careful. Why are you and Joan fighting?" 

Mark gives her a long, searching look. She had better actually be being careful. He doesn't want to lose her to the AM. He knows exactly how valuable she is to them. They'd jump at the chance to get Sam into the facility, And never let her out. But he lets it go. Sam's an adult, and she knows what she's doing. Mark hopes. 

"Joanie doesn't agree with who I decide to be friends with. And she doesn't know when to let something go." Mark says, deliberately chipper.  

"Who are you being friends with?" Sam asks. 

"Damien." 

Sam's head jerks back. Her voice rises,  _ "Damien?"  _

Mark frowns, crossing his arms. Yeah, that's about the reaction he was expecting. "Yeah." 

"Why?" Her lips are pressed flat, eyes narrowing. "Has he been forcing you? Using his ability, or, or blackmail, or threatening you?" 

Mark regrets telling her. "That's exactly what Joanie said.  _ No, _ I'm not being forced, or threatened, or anything else. He's my friend because I like him." 

"Because he  _ made  _ you like him. Oh I am going to  _ kill _ him." 

"Damien's ability doesn't have anything to do with it," Mark snaps. He's so fucking sick of this argument. He's sick of Joanie's loaded stares whenever she comes home early. He's sick of the messages on his phone that don't have any answers.

"He  _ kidnapped _ you! He tried to make you think I wasn't  _ real." _

"I know. He actually apologised for that, believe it or not." Mark rubs a hand through his hair, "Look. I know to you and Joanie it's fucked up and I need an intervention. I don't care. He's my friend." 

Sam shakes her head.  _ "Why? _ How did that even  _ happen?" _

Mark's hand drops from his hair, he looks down at his knees. He doesn't know where to even start. "He wanted me to take his ability away for a bit. So, I did. After that we sort of started hanging out." 

Whatever Sam was expecting him to say, it obviously wasn't that. She falters, "He wanted you to take his ability away? You can do that?" 

"Yeah. I can sort of hold abilities away from their owner. I can still use it, but you can't. It's...invasive." Mark shudders slightly. The AM hadn't cared about that part of Mark's power. "Damien wanted a break from being in charge all the time." 

"Does it hurt you?" 

Mark smiles, grim. "No. I'm completely fine." 

"Mark. You don't have to do what he wants anymore. He doesn't control you." Sam sounds like she's stepped out of a cartoon made for teenagers about the dangers of peer pressure. 

Mark crosses his arms. "I know. I did it because I wanted to." 

"Why?" Sam draws away from him, she adds, hesitant. "Does it... does it hurt  _ him?" _

There it is. Mark nods, his mind filled with the memory of the threads of Damien's ability snapping under Mark's fingers. "If I'm not careful there's a good chance I'll send him straight back to how he was when we got back home." 

"You don't seem happy about that," Sam says. 

"He's completely helpless when he's like that," Mark says, why is he the only one who seems to get this? "He has to do whatever anyone wants. And it sticks around—what if someone else had found out that Damien was at the mercy of whatever they wanted to do to him?"

Judging by Sam's carefully neutral expression, she's not at all concerned about it. Mark frowns at her. 

"Then why are you doing it?" Sam asks. 

If it were Joanie, Mark would say something flippant. He'd say that it's because Damien's hot, and Mark likes tying him up. But that's because he's already ruined any chance of Joan understanding what he and Damien are doing. With Sam, Mark says half of the truth. "Because he obviously needs it. And I'm the only one who can do it." 

"He can't just turn it off himself?" Sam asks, just an edge of disdain in her voice. 

Mark shrugs, hugging himself. "I'm not sure Damien's ability has an off switch."

"Oh." Sam shifts her weight on the couch. "Is it possible he's just using you?" 

"Does it matter?" 

"Of course it does." 

Mark doesn't know what to say. He falls into unhappy silence, Damien's voice ringing in his ears. Mark's just the guy he uses to unwind when everything gets too much. They both knew it. Just how they knew that Mark was using Damien back as a small way to get some kind of control back in his life. 

He was okay with that. Then everything got ruined. 

Mark?" Sam gives him a searching look. her eyes widening as she comes to a conclusion. "You really care about him don't you." 

Mark’s, heart aches. "You don't have to say it like it's that awful." 

"I don't want you to get hurt." Sam holds up a hand, forestalling Mark's retort. "And not just because it's Damien, though, yeah. But." She takes a deep breath. "I'm not going to tell you you can't see him. That would be kind of hypocritical of me." 

"You don't need to." Mark says, dull. "He's not even giving me a one word text out of my twenty these days." 

Sam leans back, frowning. "What happened?" 

"Joanie found out. I fucked up and hurt him. He hasn't talked to me since." 

"But it's not your fault. He knew it could hurt him, and he wanted you to do it anyway. That's on him." 

Mark shakes his head. "He trusted me. And I broke that trust." 

"And he  _ kidnapped _ you. Look, Mark." She grasps his shoulders, staring at him with a firm set to her features. "I know you're a  better person than him. And you'd never think about it this way. But he broke your trust pretty much every which way there was to break it, and you're still giving him a chance. He at least owes you an explanation." 

Mark shrugs. 

He doesn't want an explanation. He wants to know if Damien's okay. He's sure that Damien went home and dropped like a stone. Of course, the chance that Damien knew what was happening to him are minimal. The idiot, Mark's sure he's done barely any research into any of this stuff. Enough to pretend he understands, but not enough that he actually knows anything. 

That would be just like him. 

Sam sighs, letting Mark go. "Does he even know what he's doing to you? How torn up you are over this?" 

"The texting might have clued him in." He shakes his head slightly. "No. I told him I'd be okay, and made him believe it. I don't know if he's realised that wasn't him." 

"Mark..." 

The front door opens. Joan calls out, as she walks through "Sam? I saw your car in the driveway. I am  _ so _ sorry about running late—oh. Mark. Sam." 

"Joan," Mark says, matching the stilted way she said his name. He gives one last smile to Sam. "Thanks. Don't worry about me, go have fun." 

Sam shakes her head. She squares her shoulders, stranding, "I will." She goes over to Joan. "We better head out now if we don't want to be  _ too _ late." 

Mark hears the tail end of their conversation as they leave the apartment and go down the hall. 

"What were you talking about?" Joan asks. 

Sam, slightly hesitant, answers, "Just catching up."

Mark waits until he can't even hear their footsteps echoing down the stairwell. He gets himself a fucking drink. 

* * *

Damien mutes his phone after the second day of Mark's texts. He can't even look at them, there's too much temptation to message back, to pull Mark into the fucked up mess that is Damien's life. He can't. Mark's too good for that.

It's better this way. Mark will be happier if Damien picks for him and stays the hell away. 

That doesn't make the gaping wound in his chest any easier to bear. 

He spends a lot of the day asleep. Curled up on himself, rubbing at the rope marks on his wrists. They still haven't healed. Being awake is hard.  Being alive is hard.

He doesn't bother going to the door when he hears someone knocking. Nothing good ever comes from answering doors. 

"Damien? It's Sam. Open up." 

Yeah. Maybe when hell freezes over, sweetheart. He turns over, not at all listening to the sound of Sam's dainty footsteps leave his doorway. 

"Mark sent me," Sam calls through the door. 

Damien gets up. Worry gnawing in his stomach. "Is he okay?" Damien demands when he opens the door. 

Sam steps back slightly, eyes flickering obviously over him. Damien sneers, waiting for her to finish judging what he looks like and get to the point. 

"He's fine." Sam stops, shakes her head. "No. No. He's… worried about you." 

Damien crosses his arms, leaning on the doorframe. Of course, Mark's too good for him. Of course he's tearing himself apart with something as trivial as how Damien's doing. "Tell him to stop doing that. I'm fine." 

Sam raises an eyebrow, and looks him up and down. "Are you? Because you don't look it." 

Damien scowls. So he's wearing a shirt that's too big for him, and boxers, and hasn't shaved in a week. He wasn't expecting need to entertain guests today. "That's none of your business. Why are you here?"

"To ask you what the hell you think you're doing," Sam says. She draws herself up to her full height, arms settling on her hips. 

Damien gives her a flat, unimpressed look. He's been up against Dr. B. Against her, Sam has nothing. "Getting out of his life, like everyone clearly wants. Shouldn’t you be more pleased that I'm not around manipulating him anymore?"

"I'm still not sure I believe that." Her lips purse, she adds, obviously reluctant, "But whatever I think, he cares about you. He doesn't want  _ you _ out of his life. So again: what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Mark doesn't want me." 

"Spare me the pity party. Are you trying to punish him? Yourself? Prove some kind of point?" 

Damien bristles, "It's none of your fucking business. I'm not giving you more fodder to hate me. Go away." 

Sam glares at him, teeth gritting. She reaches out, grabbing Damien's wrist. His bones grind under her fingers. "Mark doesn't know I'm here. But he's  _ miserable _ . He's hurting, because of _ you. _ So if there's some part, a _ ny _ part of you that  _ actually  _ cares about him, you owe him an explanation." 

Damien stiffens. His free hand goes up, curling around the collar of his shirt. "No."

Sam gives him one last, disgusted look before she throws his captured wrist back at him, and marches away. 

Damien closes the door. He goes back to bed in a daze, on autopilot. The bruises on his wrists ache. 

This wasn't what he wanted. Mark was supposed to forget about him. To find someone who wouldn't fuck him up. He wasn't supposed to be hurt because Damien left. That's not how it works. 

There's a numb, hollow feeling in his stomach. Damien curls up his legs, hugging his knees. 

He doesn't understand. Mark doesn't care about him. Mark doesn't want him. He's just too nice, and doing him a favour, and maybe that would have been enough if Damien hadn't found out what it was like to be really wanted. You can't miss something that you don't know exists. 

But Damien made Mark want him, and Mark did. He'd wanted Damien to stay, to kiss him, to do more than that. He'd wanted to wrap Damien up in a blanket and sleep next to him, like a lover. 

Damien had just wanted. 

His fingers find the rope bruises, rubbing at the dark purple marks on his wrists. He's felt like shit since he left Mark's apartment. Too raw, like he's been scrubbed open, or pulled apart and put back together wrong. Like there's a void in his chest, and all he needs to fill it is to let Mark tie him up again. Or whisper praise in his ear. Or kiss him. 

Mark's miserable. 

That's Damien's fault. 

Before he can talk himself out of it, Damien picks up his phone, and calls Mark's number. 

It rings once, twice, 

This was a bad idea. Mark's going to hate him. Sam's wrong, Damien doesn't owe him an apology he'll just ruin— 

"Damien?" Mark's voice is ragged. 

"Mark." Damien says. And realises that he has no idea what to say. 

"Are you okay?" Mark says, at the same time that Damien says, "Sam came to my house because I hurt you." 

"Oh," Mark says. Damien hears a shuffling on the other side of the line. The sound of a door opening and closing. "She said that, did she." 

"Yeah." Damien scratches at his elbow. "Did I hurt you?"

Mark is silent, for too long. "No," He says, "No, you didn't hurt me."

"Don't lie to me." 

Mark barks a laugh, "Why not? You did enough of it to me, it's about time I returned the favour." 

His nails cut into the skin of his arm. "I'm sorry," Damien says. "I said I was fucking sorry for everything. How many times do I need to say it?" 

"That's not how apologies work," Mark says. And then he sighs, heavily, blowing out the mic in his phone. "I don't want to have this fight, ever. How are you feeling?" 

"I'm fine," Damien says. 

"Now who's lying," Mark says. 

Damien shifts, "I'll stop if you will," He offers. 

He can hear Mark's amused smile, "Okay. So how are you feeling, Damien?"

"Like crap," Damien says. Even with the agreement he hesitates. Mark shouldn't have to deal with his bullshit. 

"Yeah? You feel tired, but sleep isn't fixing it? Lonely? Like something's wrong but you're not sure exactly what it is?"

"Yeah.” Damien’s eyes narrow, “How do you know that?"

"It's subdrop," Mark explains. "This is what aftercare's for. Even with aftercare sometimes this happens. Subspace is nice, but it has a price tag. You've used up a lot of the chemicals in your brain right now. It takes a bit to get them back." He adds, voice lilting into hesitation, "Have you drank anything? Eaten? That will help." 

"I ate," Damien says. 

"Good." 

Damien bites his lip. "Your turn," He says. "Did I hurt you?"

"No." Mark says, again. 

"Really," Damien drawls, "Because your overprotective friend marched up to my door a few minutes ago to tell me that I'm making you miserable."

"Sam. Really. I'm--sorry about that. You didn't hurt me. This was my fault, and we both know it."

"That's news to me. What's your fault?" 

"I.." Mark falters. "I left you alone. And then I made you safe word twice in the span of about five minutes because I made you want something you expressly told me that you didn't want. It's my fault for getting all torn up about a relationship because I wanted something different than what I had." 

"I made you want that," Damien says, quiet. 

Mark is silent for a very long time. Long enough that Damien checks his phone to make sure that the call hasn't dropped. 

Damien curls himself up, "You're too good," He says, "You could have gone to anyone to get what I give you. You could have gone to someone who you actually liked, instead of dealing with all of the fucked up history and baggage that makes your sister look like she's sucked a lemon whenever she gets a look at me. There was nothing that made me the better choice than some hookup you found online." 

The words taste like ashes in his mouth. Damien continues anyway. He's always been good at saying the uncomfortable truths that no one wants to acknowledge. 

"Face it, Mark. I'm bad news. Anything you felt that day was one hundred percent me. You gave me my ability back, and the first thing I did with it was make you want me." 

Mark says, slow, deliberate. "You're not here with me now." 

"What does that have to do with it?"

"It means that what I'm about to say is one hundred percent  _ me.  _ There's no way you can second guess this. You can't influence people over the phone, and it's been weeks. There's no fucking way you're still in my head right now." Mark takes a breath. "I want you. I want you, okay. That wasn't you, it was me. Or maybe it was both of us. Right then, in that moment. I wanted you, and I still want you. I'm miserable right now because you've been ghosting me—because I missed you." 

Damien's hand knocks against his throat. "You don't even like me," he says. 

"I like you," Mark asserts. "What gave you the idea I don't?"

"You don't think… this, is special." Damien says, low, closing his eyes. "You cast your role as the guy who I unwind with. That's all you want out of me."

Mark makes a little, quiet, noise. "I did, didn't I." 

"I told you that wasn't all you were," Damien confesses. "But you'd made up your mind. That was what this was to you. Some sort of fucked up favour because you pitied me." 

"Damien, no." Mark breathes. 

Damien shrugs, realising that Mark can't see it when Mark continues. 

"I like you. I like you far more than I should, honestly. I've given up caring about that. I like you, I want you. Fuck Damien, I've been thinking of you as my sub for months. If I'd thought for a second you would have let me collar you while understanding what it meant I would have done it a month ago." 

"Why didn't you say anything?" 

"Why didn't you?" Mark challenges. 

Damien frowns, "You know why." 

"You can't blame your ability on everything. We do have phones. We don't have to be in the same room if we need to have a serious conversation." 

He doesn't know what to say to that. 

Mark sighs, "What do  _ you _ want, Damien?" 

A pit opens in Damien's stomach. He wets dry lips, throat closing up. "You," He says, brutally honest. "I want you." 

"How do you want me?" Mark asks, gentle, but the question hurts anyway. Damien doesn't know. He's never had anyone bother to ask him. No one's ever needed to before. Damien's never had a person in his life to ask that question at all. 

His nails worry at the skin of his neck. He stares down at the mark left by Mark's rope. 

"What does it mean if you collar me?" 

"It means you're mine." Mark says, and Damien wishes he could see Mark's expression right now. "It means that you'd be my sub, no one else's. You'd do what I wanted, followed whatever rules I set for you to the best of your ability. There won't be many of those, honestly. I don't go into TPE."

"TPE?"

"Total Power Exchange. You'd do what I wanted in and out of the bedroom." A laugh, hollow, "So like the roadtrip, I don't think you'd be able to stand that all the time. I definitely wouldn't. I like seeing you drop for me, and I like telling you what to do in bed, but I don't like mixing this with day to day life."

"What do you get out of collaring me then?" 

Mark doesn't say anything for a bit, Damien shifts, uncomfortable.

Quiet, barely audible, Mark says, "It makes it real. It means it's not a game we're playing anymore, it’s serious… We’re partners in this together now.” 

Damien says, low, "So my boyfriend then."

Mark laughs, "That's one way of looking at it. Is that what you want?"

Damien stares down at the bruises on his wrist. He thinks of Mark wrapping the rope around his arms, dragging the material over his skin. Mark had wanted to kiss him breathless, to share a bed with him. He’d wanted to treat Damien like a lover and Damien had wanted it so badly he thinks he broke something when he told the two of them No.  

He says, "Yes." Low, a tightness in his chest shifting now that he’s let himself say it out loud.  

The next thing Mark says vibrates in all the hollow places that Damien's had carved into him since he let Mark take his power. "Do you mean that?"

"Yes." 

Mark's voice doesn't drop the commanding undertone. "I want you to think, hard, about what you're giving me. Not now, when you hang up. I want you to spend the rest of the day thinking about it. If you change your mind, just text me. Either way you'll still be my friend, I'll still want you around. I'll even keep domming you, if that's what you want. Don't think you have to give me this just because I want it. But if you still want this tomorrow…" Mark trails off. "If you want me to collar you tomorrow, text me the address to your apartment, and I'll come over." 

Damien nods. "I understand," He adds, belatedly, when Mark prompts him. He feels untethered, like he does when Mark's pulling his power away from him. 

Mark makes a little, huffing laugh, "Did I push you into subspace?" 

"No," But he's close. He can feel the edge of the cliff. It wouldn't take much to fall off the edge of sanity into the hole where the only desires that matter are Mark's. 

Mark must hear the words Damien's not saying, because he says, "That's… something, isn't it." Still in that same, low tone that he uses when he wants Damien to give him his hands so he can bind them in leather or rope.

"Mark," Damien warns. 

His tone switches back to normal, Damien can hear the smile.  "That's something to play with later. If you want there to be a later." 

"You'll find out tomorrow," Damien drawls. He rubs at his chest, over the hollow void Mark's left in him. The knot over his heart. He doesn't need a day to think about this. He already knows his answer. 

"Yeah, I will," Mark hums, "Do you want me to keep talking? You're feeling like shit right now, right?"

"I'll be fine," Damien dismisses. 

"That's not what I asked, Damien."

Damien smiles, eyes narrowing, "Do you want  _ me  _ to keep talking?" 

"That transparent huh? I can't say I want to hang up just yet, but if you've got somewhere else that you desperately need to be..."

"I don't have anywhere." Damien says.

"Good." 

Damien doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of hearing Mark say that one word. 

* * *

Mark checks his phone one last time before he knocks on the door to Damien's apartment. The address matches, though Damien of course hadn't bothered to send anything except the address. Mark had had to look up directions on Google. He'd sent back Damien a heart, no reply. Mark hadn't been expecting one.

The door opens as soon as Mark's stopped knocking. For a moment, Mark drinks the sight of Damien in. He looks better than he did the last time Mark saw him—not that that says anything. There are very few ways to look worse than someone holding themselves together by a thread and desperately hoping that no one else can see through the cracks in their armour to the soft gooey center. He looks good, even. He's shaved, tied his hair back at the base of his neck so it's out of his face. 

He's wearing a tight-fitting button up shirt, the colour of wine. 

Marks wants— 

Damien closes the distance between the two of them, and kisses Mark. Their lips are together for a bare second in a chaste kiss before Damien draws back. His eyes dart everywhere except at Mark’s face. Mark steps forward, catching Damien's lips again, kissing him properly. His eyes close, hands settling on Damien's hips, "Hey," he says, an inch away from Damien's mouth. 

"Hey," Damien echoes. He moves away from Mark, letting him into the apartment. 

Mark doesn't bother hiding his curiosity as he looks around. It's small—much smaller than the place he and Joanie share. Damien's apartment is one main room, with two doors for a bedroom and bathroom set against the far wall. The kitchen is just a corner that's been given a tiled floor instead of a carpet. 

"No TV," Mark observes. He sets down the bag he brought with him by the couch next to a pile of well-loved books. 

"I don't need a TV when I have a computer," Damien explains. "The internet has a much better selection of shows than freeview does." 

Mark hums, noting the laptop propped next to the pile of books. Looks like Joanie's not the only person Mark knows who makes nests out of their entertainment. 

He can feel Damien's want in the back of his mind. It's harmless, or as harmless as Damien's power ever is. He wants Mark to explain what's going to happen now, what he's planned. He wants Mark to touch him. Mark smiles, turning round to draw Damien into a hug. Damien stiffens in his arms minutely before giving in, curling into Mark's body and hugging back. 

"We're going to talk about this first," Mark says, playing with a free strand of hair that's fallen out of the tie. 

"We've talked enough," Damien complains. His breath is hot against Mark's neck. As are his lips when he presses them to Mark's pulse point. That one's probably Mark's fault. Sue him, he's missed Damien. Mark's allowed to want touch as well. 

"And we're going to do some more," He says, pulling out of the hug. He sits down on the couch. The cushions sink under him, betraying its age. He pats the space next to him until Damien gets the message, curling up next to Mark on the other side. He keeps distance between the two of them. Mark wonders if that’s Damien wanting the distance, or Mark overcompensating for how much he wants Damien in his lap, instead of sitting next to him. Even with barely a foot between them it still feels like too far away. 

"Did you actually think about this?" Mark asks. 

"Of course I did," Damien's lips curls. 

"Okay," Mark says, patient. "Are you going to tell me what you thought, or do I have to keep guessing?" 

Damien's gaze drops to the bag on the floor. "I want it. I want to be yours." A glance up at Mark, hazel eyes narrowed. "That's why I gave you my address. What else do you want me to say?" 

"What you expect to get out of this for a start."

"You." 

Mark laughs. Damien glares. 

"Sorry," Mark shifts closer to Damien, still grinning. "That was mean.  _ How _ do you want me, Damien? As your Dom? Your partner in crime? Your boyfriend?" 

"Yes," Damien says. 

"Yes to what?"

"All of it, everything. I keep telling you; I want you. I don't care how." 

Mark swallows. "You know you make it really difficult to work out boundaries." He runs a hand through his hair. "Remember we got into this mess because we both thought that we wanted different things. You can't say that you want me however I'll take you, when you've proven that's not true." 

Damien's hand rubs at his wrist. At red marks that crisscross his brown skin. Mark grabs his arm, pulling it closer to him. "These should have healed already. What did you do to them?" 

Damien tries to tug his arm back, but Mark doesn't want him to. He stills, "I bruise easily. It's nothing. I said I was okay with being marked up. Remember?" his cheeks tinge red. 

Mark remembers. Damien had done more than say he was okay, he'd downright implied he liked it. Lust coils in the pit of Mark's stomach. He wants Damien to ignore that, if he can feel it at all. Later. Maybe never; this isn't about fucking for Damien. He wishes he did know what it was about for Damien. 

Damien bites at his lip. "I want this," He says, and a wall that Mark hadn't even known was there comes down. The shared link of Damien's ability fills with his wants. Mark jerks back in surprise at the onslaught, taking Damien's arm with him. Damien hisses. 

The link continues to broadcast what Damien wants. It's like someone took telepathy and empathy and jammed them together without bothering to file down all the sharp edges. 

Damien wants, desperately, for Mark to like him. The reckless, formless mess of that want colours everything else, leaks through, wanting to be touched, wanting to sit at Mark's feet and know that there's nothing that he has to worry about, wanting Mark's hands on his bare skin, everywhere, wanting Mark to tell him what to do, to call him good, to praise him when he does something right. He wants what Mark promised that last night: pressing Damien into the mattress of his bed and doing whatever it was that Mark was planning before Damien stopped him. 

Damien wants movie nights filled with bad romantic comedies because Mark's face lights up when he guesses the plot right, he wants eating takeout in their pyjamas because getting dressed is too much effort for a Saturday morning and it's not like either of them have anywhere else to be. He wants holding Mark through a nightmare, wants to help with the trauma that he's sure Mark hasn't told anyone else about yet, he wants to make it easier for Mark to exist. 

He wants to be Mark's. 

Mark is kissing him before he even realises he's moved. His hands are on either side of Damien's face, tilting his head into the right angle. Not that he needs to: mind control, every kiss they share is going to be exactly what both of them want it to be. Every kiss is going to be fucking perfect. 

Damien surrenders under him, mouth parting. 

Through the link, Mark pushes back his own wants. A thread that gets away from him as soon as he starts. The want to be touched, the want to never be alone again. The want to look after Damien, to make sure he's okay. The want to make things better for him. The want to hear the sounds Damien makes when he's overwhelmed, and dropped so deep in subspace he barely knows which way's up and down anymore. The want to know Damien better, without the baggage of everything weighing the both of them down. The want for Damien to be better, to be as good as Mark knows he can be. The want to fuck him. 

Damien moans. He wants— 

Mark wants to hear more of that. He pushes Damien back onto the couch, straddling his waist. He grabs the hem of Damien's shirt, rucking it up to his armpits so Mark can splay his hands across bare skin. He bites kisses into Damien's jaw, his neck, sucking hickies into the skin. Damien whimpers, his hips arching up, wanting more. He's hard. Hot against Mark's hip. Wanting whatever Mark will give him. 

"God, look at you," Mark says against Damien's lips. He draws back slightly, admiring the flush travelling down Damien's cheeks and chest, the bitten red of his lips. The want between them is a live wire of need, the same desires bounced back into a circle. "How did you get so far without anyone snatching you up?" 

Damien reaches up, grabbing at the collar of Mark's shirt; trying to pull him back. "No one's ever wanted to before." 

"And you?" Mark plays with the button on Damien's jeans, deliberately teasing him. Damien hisses, head dropping back when Mark's hand brushes the head of his cock through the navy denim. "Damien? Have you ever? I mean, I know you haven't, But if you've wanted—"  Mark stops. He draws back, until he's sitting up, hand on Damien's knee. Their shared want doesn't let Mark move away any further. 

Damien makes an unhappy smile, turning his head away. "Yeah, you can see what the problem would have been with me wanting anyone." 

Mark rubs his thumb against Damien's ragged jeans. There's a thin spot in the fabric, threatening to turn into a hole if given the slightest opportunity. "I want this," Mark says, quiet. "I want you." It's hard to tell right now which wants started as his, and which started as Damien's. He wants to know...

Damien props himself up onto his elbows. His eyes close, chest rising and falling in a measured pattern that Mark easily recognises as a calming exercise. The want fades, back to being an afterthought between the two of them. Not something that Mark has to act on. 

"Does Joanie know you have this much control?" Mark can't help but ask. 

Damien sneers. "Dr B. doesn't think I'm capable of learning control." 

He doesn't want to talk about Joan. Fair enough, Mark doesn't really want to either. He watches Damien pull himself up further, folding his arms and legs around the core of his body, protecting himself. 

"I don't know," Damien says. Answering the unspoken question. "I want you, I don't care how. If you want sex, let's have sex." 

Mark studies him. Damien's hands are tight around his knees, eyes down instead of looking at Mark. 

"You don't look sure about that," Mark says. He wants Damien to tell him what's wrong. 

Damien's mouth twists. 

"Damien?"

"I don't know what I'm doing," Damien spits out. "I've never wanted to do this before. What if I do it wrong? What if this is just my power?" 

"You think my want is making you want this?" Mark asks. 

"Or my want is making you want it." Damien says to his knees. His eyes flick up, "that's how it works isn't it?" 

"You don't know if you want this at all." Mark shifts, so he can put his chest on the barrier of Damien's legs. "How can you make me want something you don't want?" 

Damien shrugs. 

"I want you," Mark says. He throws out the want of it, all the ways that he's wanted Damien. He doesn't want Damien to act on any of it, just wants him to feel it, to know how Mark feels about him. He watches as Damien closes his eyes, and shudders when the want hits it's target. One of his hands reaches out. Mark laces their fingers together. "That's not your power, that's me. I can prove it." 

He leans down, grabbing the discarded bag, reaching inside for the shoebox. He flips open the lid, pulling out what he wants from the top of the assorted bits and pieces. Slim black leather, dark metal buckle and D-ring on opposite sides of the circle of the collar. Damien's eyes are heavy weights on his back. Mark runs his fingers over the cool metal. 

"You don't have to agree to this," he says. 

"I want it," Damien says. He looks straight at Mark for the first time since they started talking about this. "I've wanted it all of yesterday, and all of today. Stop hesitating. You want me. Prove it." 

Mark looks at him, smirk playing at the edges of his smile, "You're bratty when you know you can get away with it," he says. Hiding his own trepidation behind the teasing. 

Damien's eyes narrow. Get on with it, his want pushes. 

Okay. Mark stands, wanting Damien to put his feet back on the ground, to face him. In the second it takes for Mark to turn back to face the couch, he breathes, settling himself into the headspace he uses when he doms. Damien doesn't fight him. He looks up at Mark, head cocked. 

Mark kisses him. Slow, and sweet. The way he's been fantasizing about kissing Damien since yesterday. Since before yesterday, if Mark's being honest with himself. He takes his time with it, enjoying the feeling of  Damien melting under him. All the tension drains out of him, soothed away when Mark runs his hand up Damien's shoulders, his jawline, buries his hands in Damien's hair. Mark is very careful to keep all of his wants behind a wall where Damien can't get to them. He wants that to work. Whether that means it does is debatable. 

When he finally lets go, Damien's mouth is slack, hazel eyes blown wide. He still has his ability; Mark can feel all of the want. 

"This means you're mine," Mark says. Slow, commanding. Damien's breath catches. Good. "You don't let anyone else touch you. You don't let anyone else dom you." 

A tilt of Damien's lips, Mark answers it with his own half smile.

"Not that you'd ever trust anyone else to see you like this in the first place," he adds. "I'm the only one you'll let command you, aren't I?"

"Yes," Damien says, quiet. 

Mark loops the collar around Damien's neck. "Every time we scene together you'll wear this. When you wear this, you're my sub. You follow my rules, you let me look after you. You tell me what you want, and you do what I want. Understand?" 

"I understand." 

"And you still want this?"

"Yes."

Mark draws the leather fabric through the buckle. "Last chance to say no," he says. 

Damien pulls his hair out of the way. 

Mark latches the collar around Damien's throat. He tugs gently at the metal ring on the front of the collar, testing the fit, watching as Damien's throat bobs underneath the black leather. And that's—Mark stares, Damien's prettier than any of Mark's fantasies. Mark's dreams hadn't included the full bow of Damien's lips, the way Damien's tongue darts out to lick at his bottom lip, the way his eyes go dark when Mark runs his fingers around Damien's throat. Mark's dreams hadn't prepared him for the sheer possessive want.

"You don't touch this," he says, gathering his head back together. "Okay? I put it on you at the start of a scene, I take it off at the end. You can ask me if you want it, or if you want it off. If there's a problem you tell me, or you safeword."

Damien nods, one of his hands reaching up to join Mark's on the loop of metal at the front. Eyes narrowed up at Mark. Obviously testing. 

"You can touch here," Mark says. He tugs at the collar. Damien’s eyes widen, going dark. He takes Damien's hand, leading it around the collar. "You can touch here, and here..." He stops Damien's hand on the buckle, "But this is mine. I'm the only one who touches this. And if you don't obey that, I'll buy something with a lock." 

Damien's hand falls. He leans in towards Mark, wants reaching out. 

Mark leans down again, and kisses him. Again, he savours the feeling of Damien's lips underneath his own, loving the little noises Damien makes into Mark's mouth. 

He nips at the corner of Damien's mouth. Runs his hands down Damien's shoulders, his chest, catching at the buttons of his shirt. Mark wants to take it off him. Damien's hand reaches around Mark's to undo them all one-handed, going down his torso until the shirt is gaping open. Mark takes he blatant invitation, and kisses his way down Damien's neck. He grins against the collar when his lips hit the smooth leather, but doesn't stop, he kneels, planting kisses and little nips across Damien's collarbones, his solar plexus, his stomach. 

Damien laughs, wriggling away, ticklish. 

Mark smiles up at him. Meeting Damien's own soft, crooked smile. 

Damien wants…  

"Let me take care of you," Mark says, quiet. He stands, hooking a finger into the metal ring of the collar to gently tug Damien up with him. He grabs the bag holding his shoebox, along with Damien's laptop and the book placed on the tallest of the book piles. 

The apartment is small enough that it's easy to find the bedroom. Damien hasn't made his bed. A red and black duvet cover is piled on one end of the bed, at the opposite end are two mismatching pillows. Blackout curtains on the windows; Mark has to flick on the overhead light so he doesn't trip on the basket of laundry discarded close to the path from the door to the bed. 

He pulls Damien onto the bed with him, lying against the pillows, Damien curled against him, head against his chest. Immediately, Mark's hand is in Damien's hair, running through the curls, and gently untangling the various knots Damien's accumulated through the day. 

Damien's solidly in subspace. Of course he is, Mark put a collar around his throat and ordered him around. Not to mention the fact that Mark wants him to be in subspace right now. Damien isn't the only one who goes to a special head space when they do things like this. 

the wants hum between them, an open line, but Mark's the only one broadcasting anything. Damien's wants are muffled, barely there, an afterthought. He's so fucking vulnerable like this. Mark's heart hurts with how badly he could fuck this up, how much Damien trusts him to not do that. 

He drops a kiss against Damien's temple. 

"Do you want me to read to you, or do you want to watch something?" 

Damien makes a chirring sound, nuzzling against Mark's chest. "Read to me." It lilts up like a question, another product of subspace. 

"Yeah?" Mark says, "You're sure about that?"

"Yeah." A breath against Mark's neck when Damien kisses him. 

Mark wants Damien to shift, so he can sit up. Damien does. Mark props himself up against the pillows, laughing as Damien makes a disappointed whine when Mark has to take his hand out of Damien's hair. He arranges the both of them, using Damien's ability and a few pokes to Damien's shoulders, until Damien has his head in Mark's lap, while Mark is propped up against the pillows and headboard. 

"Happy now?" Mark says, burying his hand back in Damien's hair. He can feel Damien's smile against his leg. 

He opens the book one handed. There's no marker for wherever Damien was in the book, if he'd even started it to begin with. Mark flips to the opening chapter: "Do you remember where you were when the meteor hit? I've never understood why people phrase it as a question, because of course you remember…"

Mark turns the pages with his thumb, stroking Damien's hair with his other hand. Somewhere in the middle of chapter three, Damien falls asleep, the last bit of his weight resting on Mark's leg. He stirs slightly when Mark takes his hand away, sleepy want reaching out for Mark to come back. 

He's so open like this. Sweet with it, slack lipped, eyelashes brushing his cheeks. One of his hands fisted in the hem of Mark's shirt. 

Mark's heart aches. 

"I'm here," Mark says, he smiles, putting the book to the side and burying both his hands in the nape of Damien's hair. One of his hands finds the collar, and Mark caresses the skin above and below the strip of leather. "I'm not going anywhere."

Damien shifts slightly, getting comfortable on Mark's lap, before going slack again. Mark watches his chest rise and fall with his steady breathing, unconsciously matching it. He leans back against the headboard, grabbing pillows to prop up his back. 

For as long as Damien wants this, for as long as Mark wants it, he's not going anywhere. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Mark reads to Damien is _The Calculating Stars_ by Mary Robinette Kowal. (By including it I’m wrecking the timeline of Bright Sessions, as the book came out in 2018.)
> 
> That’s it. It’s done. Thank you everyone who read this. And thank you again to everyone who commented, every single one of them made my day.

**Author's Note:**

> [Come visit my tumblr!](http://bandit-writes.tumblr.com/)


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